


Blind Course

by samsarapine



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samsarapine/pseuds/samsarapine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rip van Etten is determined to usurp Sterling Rich's place as the world's best pro rally driver.  But when his dream is threatened, will he fight for it to the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lawless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawless/gifts).



> **Author's notes 1:** While the pro rally racing in this story is grounded in RL rallying rules, I've used my author's prerogative to tweak some of those rules for the story's sake. I extend my apologies to those of you who are stage rally enthusiasts.  
> **Author's notes 2:** Thank you to **nanfoodle**, my wonderful beta. Without her, this story would be full of inconsistencies and errors. I touched it last, however, so any remaining mistakes are my own.  
> **Author's notes 3:** Written for Lawless523 as part of the 2010 **7thnight_smut** fest. Her prompt was "Sanzo/Gojyo: Rivals in professional automobile racing (prefer F1, drag, or rally racing) (the kind of rivalry that existed between Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost is an example)." My deepest thanks to her for such a fun prompt. I had a blast with this!

 

**Blind Course**

_"For the true racer, competition is the strop that sets the edge of the razor-thin line between success and failure."  
Samuel Hastings, _European Course_, January XXXX_

** _~prologue~_ **

 

**Phoenix vs. Dragon: Van Etten's Challenge** _  
Byline: Samuel Hastings  
_

Off the Beaten Track_, May 13, XXXX, Sacramento, CA. When does an event give birth to a legend? Is the instant recognized, or is that defining moment simply created whole cloth after the fact by historians deliberately weaving the fabric of a myth?  
_

_Rally racing fans who watched the California Grand Prix Stage Rally Meet may soon be able to answer that question, and could look forward to a day when they tell their grandchildrens' children that they witnessed the advent of an event that transcends sport: the birth of a battle as epic as the myths that created empires in the East.  
_

_Until the final moments of the race, the outcome was uncertain. Would Sterling Rich, wealthy rally car enthusiast and inventor, hold on to his world title, or would rash and brilliant newcomer Ryan "Rip" van Etten steal the gold cup from him?_

Van Etten's round was flawless, and the risky choices he's become famous for in the short time he's raced the professional circuit seemed to have paid off, setting a new world record that shaved just under a minute from the old record established by Rich three years ago.

But in the end, it was Rich's dazzling, calculated skill at the wheel that took the day. Not only did he win the rally, he established a new_ world's record a full 93 seconds faster than van Etten's._

Van Etten immediately gave truth to the stereotype of redheads and anger. "When you know the route and drive by the numbers, it's easy to win a race. I'd like to see whether Rich has what it takes to win a blind race, over a course he doesn't know."

(For readers unfamiliar with Van Etten's career, it's important to note that he started on the dangerous and unregulated 'freeform circuit', wherein stage rally rules are applied to roadless terrain.)

World-class course designer and race organizer Patrick Hearst expressed interest in van Etten's idea. "I would like to see these two competitors in a blind race. It would be very enlightening, wouldn't it?"

When asked what made a blind race so special, Hearst noted it's easy to drive when the sun lights a course, "…but driving blind takes away any advantages and leaves only man versus fate. Without skill and courage, a driver could be swallowed by the darkness."

If such an event were to come to pass, fans would be witness to a race pitting the best drivers in the world against themselves as well as against their competitors. Rich, known for his precision timing and his almost uncanny relationship to his car, would be challenged to push himself past his normal cool calculation, while van Etten's seemingly reckless risk-taking would need to be curbed, so as not to disqualify himself for over-shooting the proscribed course.

This fan, for one, would like to see the reigning dragon of stage rallies take up the gauntlet thrown by the sport's brightest shining phoenix.

Endnote: Rich could not be reached for comment prior to publication of this article.

_   
_

**Chapter One **

_"Some of the most complex men are those who appear simple at first glance. Focus, drive, passion: these attributes are easy to dismiss as mere desire for commercial gain or ego-driven bragging rights. But for the true competitor, these simple qualities are merely the surface reflection of a man who strives to prove to himself that he's stronger than fate."  
Samuel Hastings, _Race_, June XXXX_

"Damn it, Rip!"

Rip van Etten unbuckled his helmet and slipped it off, tossing it as he climbed out of the Jeep. "Here, shorty."

Joe Long deftly caught it as he clambered out the passenger side. "Shut up. I'm normal. It's you who's too tall, jerk."

"Dream on, shrimp." Rip pulled his hair out of its tie and let it fall around his shoulders, running his fingers through it to straighten the tangles. The day was fucking hot; after the rain two days ago, the ruts in the track had been as hard as railroad tracks. His ass hurt from the Jeep's bucking, but they'd won because he knew that kind of terrain and drove through what other drivers tried to drive around. Too bad that jerk, Sterling Rich, hadn't been in this race. He'd have wiped the bastard's ass. "Good run."

"Yeah. But you should've listened to me going into the S-curve. I told you that it was gravel on the second corner."

Rip rubbed his sleeve over his face. He could use a beer. "We got through it, didn't we? We would have lost more time if I'd taken it slower."

"Uh uh." Joe shook his head vigorously. "When you fishtailed, you lost at least two seconds getting the Jeep back under control. You could have cut a second off that if you'd done like I told you, and then you'd have been in a better position to gain speed on that last stretch."

"We left everybody else's time in the dust. We're gonna win. That's what's important." Joe was probably right, but Rip was damned if he was going to become a clock-watcher like that stuck-up prick, Rich. He knew the Jeep, every rattle of her frame, every slip of her tires, and his gut knew just when to let her go and when to rein her in. "Besides, it's too late for me to change now. I start driving by the book, and I'll lose time."

"Why the heck am I your navigator when you never listen to me?" Joe muttered. "Jerk." He looked around and swung Rip's helmet toward the food tents. "I'm hungry. I'm getting something to eat. Wanna come?"

"Nah. Thanks." Rip pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one out of the pack. "I've got an interview lined up. Hastings, independent. Heard of him?"

"Geez, you're an idiot!" Joe replied, clearly disgusted. "He's the dragon guy, remember? Writes for the big rags and talks on tv and the radio and stuff. Don't say anything stupid."

_That's right. The guy with the weird writing style, like rallying was highbrow or something._ "No guarantees." Rip lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. "Hasta, baby."

"Lame asshole." Joe trotted off before Rip could think of a rejoinder.

Rip perched his cigarette on his lip and pulled back his hair again as he walked toward the clubhouse. So, Hastings was classy, was he? Probably some stuck up snob, or one of those guys who tried to trick you into saying things you shouldn't say. Joe was right, he'd have to watch it. But maybe he'd see if he could have some fun with the asshole, too. Maybe he could get Hastings to write about elves or something.

He finished tying his hair into a neat tail as he entered the club.

"Gimme a beer, would you, Roger?" Rip slid onto a barstool and crushed out his cigarette before he unzipped his firesuit and shrugged off the top, letting it dangle around his waist. The bartender set a glass in front of him. "Thanks." Rip drained half of it in one long draught.

"Hear you made record time again, Rip."

"We did okay." Rip set the beer on the bar and grinned. "Joe thinks we could have done better."

"That kid's got some good sense."

"Only when it comes to cars and rallying. Otherwise, he's just a noisy shit with a bottomless pit for a stomach. Takes all my winnings just to feed him a week."

Roger laughed and wiped the bar. "You've been together forever, right?"

"Yeah." Rip shook his head. "If something happened to him, his Aunt Kanzie would have my balls."

"Excuse me. Mr. van Etten?"

Rip looked up as Roger politely moved away to tend to other customers. "Yeah?"

A tall, dark-haired man stood beside him, wearing glasses and trousers that came straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine's idea of an 'outdoorsman.' The man extended his hand with a smile. "Samuel Hastings. Is now a good time for that interview?"

Was he being genuinely friendly, or were Rip's instincts right, and that smile was hiding something?

"Now's as good a time as any. Want a beer or anything?" When Hastings shook his head, Rip picked up his glass and stood. "Follow me. We can use the back office."

Hastings might have looked like a townie, but he moved through the crowded bar with wired grace. He reminded Rip of a catamount, tawny and sleek and deadly, the kind of cat that ambushed its prey. _Shit. Joe's advice might have hit the mark closer than I thought._ Rip decided he'd better play it cool and not say much during the interview. No need to expose his throat to a hunter like this guy.

They reached the back office and Rip opened the door. "In here. There's a kind of library over by the window, with chairs and a table. We can use that."

"Thank you." Hastings walked across the room in front of Rip. The guy had a nice ass. Still, something about him felt off, a sort of 'don't come near me' quality that grounded Rip's libido. Whoever this guy was, he was off-limits.

They sat at the table. Rip reached for an ashtray. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Please do."

Rip lit up and leaned back in his chair. "So, what kind of questions do you have for me?"

"I understand that you're from New York," Hastings began. "Your nickname seems to be derived from there, too."

"That's right. The Catskills. Some guys started calling me 'Rip van Winkle' when I started the amateur circuits, and it stuck."

"Mmm. Quite an upscale part of the country."

Rip shrugged. "Not everybody lives the high life there. There are lots of guys like me who grew up without a whole lot of anything."

"I see. Your father was fairly well-off I believe, though?"

"My dad died when I was two." Rip frowned and tapped his ash into the ashtray. "What's with all of the personal questions?"

"You have a reputation for being someone who came up from nothing," Hastings said smoothly. "Ironic, isn't it, when you were surrounded by so much?"

"Look, I'm not going into my family life with you, so just drop it or leave. If you think that living in a rich part of the world means that everybody's got a tree in the back yard that grows money, you're a pretty stupid dude. And somehow, I don't think you're that stupid." Rip frowned at Hastings.

"Thank you for the compliment." The smile didn't leave Hastings' face. "So if I were to share the results of my investigations into your background with my readers, you wouldn't have anything to add to it?"

"If you find any money in my background, let me know." Rip laid his arm over the back of his chair. "I sure as hell never did."

"Your rise in the rallying world has been quite meteoric."

"Yeah. I work hard. So?"

"Another person whose early rise was equally meteoric is Sterling Rich, who also comes from the Catskills part of New York. Of course, he makes no secret of the wealth that finances his rally career. I believe he's the only rally driver who doesn't take sponsorships."

"What are you trying to get me to say? If you want me to badmouth Rich, fuck you. Rich may have some money, and maybe he acts like one of the world's most stuck-up assholes, but his driving talent isn't just hype. He's good."

"So you'd say that you and Rich have nothing in common then? Except for your driving skills, of course," Hastings murmured, taking notes.

"I've never even met the guy. Look. What are you getting at?"

Hastings' smile sharpened. "Two colorful drivers, both from the same part of the country, with diametrically opposing backgrounds and brilliant driving skills, one of whom owns a car company that manufactures elite production models, the other of whom drives for a sponsor of a second line of not-quite-so-elite production models, both wildly successful and sporting a rivalry that's attracting more enthusiasts to the sport every day. Seems like quite the coincidence, especially given how lucrative the situation has become for both of you."

Rip didn't know whether to laugh or bash Hastings' face in. "Are you saying that Rich and I are—What? Working together in some kind of scam to sell cars? Jesus, fuck, you bastard! I don't know Rich, but anyone who tries to tell me that the guy's on the take and that he's only in it for the money is nuts! And I sure as hell don't make much money off of driving, either." He leaned on the table, hands flat to keep himself from balling them into fists. "Look, I drive because I'm damned good at it. I like pushing myself. I like pushing the car. I like second-guessing my navigator's instructions and proving the course designers might know a hell of a lot about how to drive a rally, but they don't know shit about how to be a rally driver."

"You can like to do all of those things and still have an ulterior motive," Hastings pointed out.

"Aw, fuck!" Rip pushed away from the table. "Fine. Write your article. Tell the world that Rich and I are cheating the fans. I won't be able to do anything about it, but I bet Rich has attorneys who'll eat you for dinner, and I'll just sit back and laugh."

Hastings' smile changed, its sudden warmth startling. "Ah haha! I'd hoped that you were the kind of man you seemed to be," he said, sitting back. "Forgive me for my cynicism, but I've covered everything from wars to the abuse of government contracts. I've found that things quite often aren't what they seem. It's quite refreshing to find someone who is."

"Why'd you think that in the first place?"

"Your challenge," Hastings said. "Especially when Patrick Hearst jumped on the opportunity so quickly. He's usually quite a bit more circumspect and calculated, but he's already got sponsors lined up and is building international interest in the rally. He's calling it 'The Sun and Moon Blind Rally.' I hear that he's scheduling it for December 21st, the longest night of the year, and it will include special stages that involve night-driving."

Rip grunted. "Must think he can make a lot of money from it."

"He's also a former protégé of Sterling Rich's father."

"I didn't know that." Rip shook his head. "Shit. I've never heard of any connection between them before."

"There doesn't seem to be, other than the connection between Rich's father and Hearst, and that had already deteriorated before Sterling Rich entered the picture. Once Rich was adopted, it appears his father focused all of his attention on his son, and Hearst left Kyou Motors to take a job with a Japanese company."

"So you thought all three of us had worked out some sort of scheme." Rip snorted. "Fat chance."

"The number of coincidences is quite striking," Hastings murmured.

"Yeah, well, coincidentally there are a lot of stars in the sky, too, aren't there?"

"You have quite an unique way of looking at things."

"Not everything is bad, just like not everything is good. It is what it is."

"Ah, yes. I'm familiar with that philosophy. 'Dragons beget dragons, and phoenixes, phoenixes; and the offspring of mice will know how to chew holes,'" Hastings replied.

Rip snorted. "Where do you get that shit? Phoenixes and dragons? You put 'em in that article, too."

"It's an ancient Chinese proverb. Don't you think it's appropriate?"

"How the hell can I? I don't know what you're talking about." Rip shrugged and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

Hastings leaned forward with an intent gaze, pushing aside the ashtray. "The dragon is the emperor, the bringer of wealth. The phoenix is the fire, and the herald of a new age. They're often depicted as mortal enemies—or, conversely, as lovers."

_Lovers._ Rip hid a start. Did Hastings know…? He was watching Rip closely, that was for sure.

Hastings dropped his eyes demurely. "The dragon is traditionally considered to represent male characteristics, and the phoenix, female."

The bastard knew. He knew and he was taunting him. Rip regarded Hastings through half-closed eyes, reining in his anger. "So now you're saying I'm a chick?"

"Mr. van Etten, are the rumors alleging that you engage in homosexual affairs true?"

Rip's stomach dropped. "This interview is finished. Get out."

Hastings tilted his head to the side, calmly regarding him. "If you end the interview here, I'm free to speculate."

His heart felt like it might pound his chest open. Rip had known that something would get out, sometime. He'd just hoped he'd have a chance to make a real name for himself, first, maybe make enough money to live a comfortable life, if not a fancy one. "Speculate all you want, asshole." He'd gambled. He'd lost. Shit happened. It just sucked, after he'd worked like a dog to get this far.

"I'd prefer not to," Hastings replied mildly. "It's apparent that this is a sensitive issue for you. I withdraw my question."

"I don't give a fuck." Rip was shaking so hard, he figured Hastings could see it. "Get out!"

Hastings put his notebook down and sat back in his chair. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right. It's unpardonable to bring your personal life into the interview like that."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Controversy sells. There could hardly be anything more controversial in this particular sport than one of its most skilled and admired drivers being gay."

Rip felt the blood drain from his face. The bastard. He'd played Rip just right, hadn't he?

"I see," Hastings said softly. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I won't contribute to your difficulties."

Money. Maybe money was the answer. Rip's mouth went dry. He didn't have much, probably nowhere near enough… "How much?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much to keep quiet?"

"I deserve that," Hastings said regretfully. "Mr. van Etten, I came to this interview thinking that I would find a fraud, a man who had money and connections equal to Sterling Rich, and who had built a carefully-crafted story to further his career. Instead, I found a man who is straightforward, courageous and blunt." He pushed his glasses up on his nose and stood. "I won't impose on you any longer. And I won't repeat anything of a personal nature that may or may not have come up during my visit. I promise you." He extended his hand. "I truly am very sorry for my actions here today. I hope you'll do me the honor of granting me future interviews, but I understand if you choose not to."

Rip just stared. Jesus. Should he believe him? Hastings looked sincere. His gut told him the guy was sincere. He studied Hastings' face, not quite sure what to do. Green eyes, clear and regretful, gazed back at him.

Hastings was a journalist. It was stupid to trust a journalist.

Yet this guy seemed real. But was taking a chance on him worth risking his career?

Fuck it.

"I could use a drink. You a drinking man?"

Hastings blinked. "Occasionally."

"I'm buying." Rip threw his arm over Hastings' shoulders. "Nothing fancy, though. And no," he said, not even glancing at Hastings' face, "I'm not putting the moves on you. Don't worry. You're not my type."

"Then why?" Hastings didn't shrink away, though Rip got the feeling that he normally didn't let other people near him.

"I like your eyes," Rip admitted. "I think you might hide things with them, but just now, you didn't, and I liked them."

Hastings started laughing. "You liked my eyes! You're trusting me because you liked my eyes?"

Rip grinned. "Yeah. Stupid, isn't it?"

Shaking his head, Hastings chuckled. "Call me Sam."

"I'm Rip. Nice to meet you, Sam."

"Likewise."

"Let's go get those beers."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

 

**Chapter Two **

_"What's the fuel that burns hottest? It has nothing to do with petrol, nor is it skill or luck. It's the sheer force of a competitor's personality."  
Samuel Hastings, _Business Today_, June XXXX_

 

 

Rip watched the envelope disappear into the depths of the mailbox. "There she goes. I'm officially signed up for that damned Sun and Moon race. Now to find some sponsors."

Joe grinned. "That's never been a problem."

Rip snorted. "No, thank fuck. Sam knew what he was talking about when he told me about Hearst's plans. The race is in December, so we've got plenty of time to line up the right people." He hesitated for a second, trying to act casual. "Hey. You wanna go watch Rich drive the club rally today?"

"Scouting out the opposition? Sure!" Joe's face lit up. "The club's got the best burgers around, too!"

"Idiot." Rip ruffled Joe's hair.

"Quit it, jerk! I'm not a kid."

"Bullshit. You're still wet behind the ears." He fended off Joe's indignant blows as they walked to the car and tried to rein in his excitement.

He was going to meet Sterling Rich today, come hell or high water.

Rich had always been ahead of him, remote and out of reach as Rip had worked his way into the professional circuit and started his climb. No other driver was worth his time; Rip only had eyes for the one at the top.

The one he was going to beat. In his gut, Rip knew he was the better driver. He just had to prove it.

Christ, he wanted Rich's ass. And because Rich was fucking gorgeous, Rip wanted it in every way possible.

Taciturn to the point of being sullen, Rich's well-deserved reputation for being hard to get along with only sparked Rip's interest. He had a secret theory that if a guy was that pissy in private and drove like the devil himself in public, the passions running under that hard surface would prove to be the ultimate turn-on between the sheets. Forget the blond hair, the lavender Elizabeth Taylor eyes, the slim, powerful build – that asshole had enough balls to set world records on the track, even breaking Rip's own. Any guy who could do that and still stay shut down probably had a hell of a lot of sexual energy to tap.

Now that Rip had finally made it into Rich's sphere, he figured it was time to meet him. And then… Yeah.

He wanted to fuck the hell out of the pretty asshole.

He opened his car door and grinned at Joe's annoyed face. "Tell you what. I'll stand you to two burgers, you being my nav and all."

"Two?" Joe's voice shrilled up the scale. "Two? What the hell's going on with that? Five at least, you asshole, or I'll steer you into a river during our next race!"

"Three."

"Three of the super-pounders. With three orders of cheese fries, three orders of jalapeno poppers, three chocolate shakes, three slices of apple pie with ice cream and three bottomless sodas. And you don't get any of it, it's all mine," Joe added in a rush.

"You're learning, kid. I'm not cleaning the bathroom after you take a dump tomorrow, though. In fact, I think I'll just move to the next town, because the sewer in this one is headed for problems after you get finished with it." Rip opened his car door.

"Fuck off. I think I'll ask for the super-pounder cheeseburgers instead." Joe grinned and stretched, then climbed into the passenger seat.

Once on the road, Rip started whistling, ignoring Joe's complaints. Who cared if he was in tune or not?

He had a date to meet a certain rally driver.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Joe knew a guy in Rich's maintenance crew, so Rip was waiting for Rich when he finished his final special stage.

The day was cold for June, gray and overcast and threatening rain. Rich's crew had set up a tarp to give them some shelter, but Rip knew the protection was mostly for the car, not for them. Rainy days could be a real bitch. His own crew hated them.

A sleek white car pulled into the area under the tarp. Rip took a second to admire the Kyou's beauty. She might look like a sports car, but she was built to withstand a head-on with an unloaded semi. Tough and gorgeous, a true collector's dream.

Her driver's side door opened and Sterling Rich climbed out, glaring at Rip. "Who the fuck are you?"

Gorgeous. Like car, like driver. "Rip van Etten," Rip said, extending his hand.

Rich ignored his hand. "Get the fuck out of my service area." He unstrapped his helmet and handed it to one of the crew.

Close up, Rich was even prettier than Rip had imagined. There should be frown lines furrowed deep into his brow with that glare, but his skin was as wrinkle-free and soft as a fashion model's. The golden hair was more luminous, too, catching and reflecting light in a thousand shades of money and privilege, while the hands that guided his car so capably were long-fingered and graceful. Rip felt a stirring in his groin as he dropped his outstretched hand and grinned.

"Yeah, well, I'm here to steal all your secrets," he drawled. "Like what oil mix you use, and whether your tires are all-weather or light. You know. Because you're the best and all."

"Fuck off, asshole." Rich shot an annoyed look at him, which just made Rip grin harder. God, Rich was cute when he was pissy.

"Seriously." Rip turned down the wattage a bit. "I'm here to make sure that you're driving the Sun and Moon in December."

Rich watched as the crew jacked the Kyou up and started working on her rear tires. "Why should I? Just because some yahoo from the sticks is a bad loser."

Rip laughed. "If I was a bad loser, I'd have hired away your maintenance crew. That would show you, hey?"

Rich turned to face him. "You're a real asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, it takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

"Are you planning to waste my time with school-yard taunts or something?"

"Nope, not really. Why won't you drive the Sun and Moon?"

Rich snorted and turned away, stripping off his firesuit. "What's the point? Racing is about skill, speed and control. Blind rallies don't measure that, they only measure luck and circumstance. There's no challenge."

_Who knew taking off a firesuit could be so damned sexy?_ Rip shook off his lust. "No glory, eh? What a fucking ego you've got! Just like the nice, safe world of stage rallying, do you? All measured, all written up in your little book of race notes, no surprises, drive like a robot and you'll get rich."

"I'm already rich, jerk." Rich put a jacket on. "Carl, throw this bastard out, would you?"

Rip eyed Carl, a hulking Chinese guy with huge grease-stained hands and a cheerful expression.

"Sure thing, boss." Carl turned to Rip. "You want I should carry you, or are you gonna go on your own?"

"Hey, Carl, what do you think? Do you think your boss should drive the Sun and Moon?" Rip asked.

Carl shrugged. "It'd be a great race." His voice sounded a little wistful.

Rip grinned in triumph. "See, Rich? 'A great race,' he said."

"When you throw him out, make sure he lands on his head and breaks his fucking neck." Rich started walking toward the course.

"See you later, big guy!" Rip waved at Carl as he trotted after Rich. When he caught up, he fell in step with him. "You've got a hell of a crew."

"I'll get course security."

"Wouldn't the tabloids love that?" Rip shook his head. "Look. This isn't about ego or money or any of that shit. It's about driving. Don't you want to drive a race where the odds are against you?"

"I don't bet odds. Get the fuck away from me."

Rip stretched, letting his shirt ride up so that Rich could get a good view of his taut stomach. Just to annoy him, of course. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink and we can talk about it."

Rich suddenly grabbed Rip's collar and yanked him behind a tent. "I warned you, asshole!"

"Fuck!" Rip whispered hoarsely, putting his hands up and looking down the barrel of what looked like a Colt revolver straight from the movies. He swallowed hard and met Rich's furious gaze. "I guess this is a good answer to 'is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?' isn't it?"

"What the fuck are you up to?" Rich demanded. The gun didn't waver.

"Uh, I hate to point this out, but the tabloids would go crazy over a story about you shooting me."

"I've got money. They'll never find your body."

Rip burst into laughter. "God, you are such a dickwad! 'They'll never find your body!' What the fuck's so bad about having a drink with me, Rich?"

"I don't like you." Still, Rich eased the hammer forward and lowered the gun.

"You don't have to like a guy to get drunk with him," Rip pointed out. "By the way, can I lower my hands now?"

Rich continued to glare. "I only drink Hudson Single Malt."

"I can afford it." Rip lowered his hands.

"Then buy me a bottle and go the fuck away."

Rip had an inspiration. "Tell you what. Let's play Russian roulette – with a non-human target," he quickly amended, "—and let the results say whether you enter the race or not."

"Why the hell should I bet on that?"

"Because if you don't, you won't be able to get rid of me. Now, how many rounds are in that thing, anyway? Five?"

"Six." Rich stepped back, frowning.

"Right. Take out all but one round, then spin the whatchamacallit so you don't know if the bullet is chambered or not. Then, aim at, say," Rip looked around, "that tree over there, away from all of the people. If no bullet comes out, you sign up to drive the Sun and Moon."

Rich paused a moment. "I take one bullet out and leave the rest in, and you've got yourself a bet."

_One in six. Oh well, better than none at all._ "Fine. Jerk."

"I'm not the stalker here."

"Che. Just get rid of the bullet already, would you? I want to see you enter that fucking race so I can beat the shit out of you and your Kyou."

"Hey, Rip!" Joe barrelled around the corner, his shirt liberally stained with a variety of foods. "There you are! You've got to try the nachos here, they're crazy good—" Joe paused, his eyes wide. "Whoa! You're Sterling Rich!"

Rich closed his eyes. "Another fucking moron."

"Hey, Joe. Run over there by that tree and make sure nobody's behind it or anything, will you? If nobody's there, give us the 'all clear' and move your ass out of the way. We're doing some target practice." Rip rubbed his hands together.

Joe's mouth hung open. "You're crazy."

Rich cursed. "Just do it so we can get this the fuck over with."

Joe nodded, eyes still wide, then turned and bolted for the tree.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

The contest proved to be anti-climatic, since an alert security guard spotted them just as Rich pulled the trigger. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered, and Rich looked like he was about to explode.

"You nearly got my win taken away from me, you fucker!" Rich snapped at Rip as security tagged his gun and confiscated it. "And you owe me an antique Colt!"

"But I won, didn't I?" God, it felt good to rub Rich's nose in his loss. "No bullet. The hammer landed on an empty chamber."

"There weren't any."

"What?"

"No bullets. I keep it for show, for assholes like you." Rich took out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.

"I'm the first who actually made you shoot it, then? Heh heh." Rip felt jubilant. "Hey! Wait a minute!" He stared at Rich. "That means that you were going to drive the Sun and Moon all along, doesn't it, you asshole?"

"There's no way I'll lose against an idiot as gullible as you." Rich lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, meeting Rip's eyes with a faint smirk as he blew out the smoke.

And Rip fell in love.

_Or, at least, really, really intense lust,_ he told himself.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip liked the bar. The atmosphere was comfortable, and they'd grabbed a booth with big bench seats and a convenient corner where he could trap Rich, while Joe had the rest of the table to hold the mountains of food he ordered. Country music played in the background, the good classic stuff, the beer wasn't a microbrew and was cold as hell, and wonder of wonders, they allowed smoking. Rip sipped his beer and sprawled, pressing his thigh against Rich's.

"Stop touching me," Rich muttered.

Rip smiled and stretched an arm along the back of the booth, just brushing the hair at the nape of Rich's neck. "Hey. Isn't that Sam? Hey, Sam!"

Sam paused in the doorway and looked around, blinking in that fucking misleading way of his, then beamed as he spotted them. "My goodness! Rip!" He maneuvered through the room until he stood by their table. "Mr. Sterling?"

Rich looked bored and blew out a stream of smoke. He grunted.

"This is my nav, Joe Long," Rip said. "Sit down. Joe, move over, for fuck's sake!"

"Hey," Joe greeted Sam. "Good to meet you. You the dragon guy?"

Sam laughed and slid in next to Joe. "Yes, I'm the dragon guy. You're quite talented, Mr. Long. And quite courageous to navigate for a driver like Rip."

Joe grinned. "He's an asshole, but it's fun most of the time."

"This guy's a reporter," Rich said in a bored tone.

"Yeah, well, Sam's off the clock now, right?" Rip raised his eyebrows, and Sam nodded.

"I've done my story for the day," he said. A waitress placed a glass of beer in front of him. "I'm surprised to see you sitting together. I didn't think you were acquainted."

Rip grinned. "We just met this afternoon. Off the record, I got the asshole to sign up for the Sun and Moon."

Rich ground his cigarette out. "Fuck off. Nobody gets me to do anything I don't intend to do already. And we're not acquainted. He's just a fucking stalker."

"Who's buying you your Hudson Single Malt, you picky bastard."

"Heh heh! That's funny." Joe grinned at Rich. "Who knew booze could get you to do things? We should have tried that for the California Grand Prix, Rip."

"That's wonderful news!" Sam raised his beer. "To the Sun and Moon and the chance to see history being made!"

"Yeah!"

"Hear, hear!"

Rip and Joe raised their beers, and Rip was pleased to see Rich take a sip of his whiskey, though he made it look as if it wasn't in answer to the toast.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Sam and Joe left at bar time, but Rip persuaded the owner to let him buy booze before last call and hang out with Rich while the staff cleaned up. Being pretty well-known had its perks, especially when you were trying to get into a guy's pants.

Rich didn't talk much, but Rip learned enough about him to confirm that the jerk really was a _driver_, someone who raced for the thrills and challenge of beating the course and the clock, just like him. He also learned that Rich had no pretensions when it came to his skill, he hated pretty much everyone, he smoked the wrong brand of cigarettes, and was every sex dream Rip had ever had, sporting an ass that was a dark angel's dream.

A short time later, the manager waited at the door as the last of the waitresses left. "We're closing up."

Rip slid out of the booth, Rich following, and they left the bar, watching as the owner locked up and drove off.

There were only two cars left in the lot. One was Rip's, so he figured the other was Rich's. Looked like it, too: a sleek white number that was obviously a production model of the Kyou that Rich drove in rallies.

"You wanna drive or should I?" Rip put his hand on Rich's waist.

"You're drunk," Rich said, his voice full of disgust. He pushed Rip's hand away.

"Nah, just buzzed." Rip grinned. "I like you. Asshole."

"Definitely drunk." Rich frowned and took his cigarettes out. He seemed to have a difficult time tapping one out of the pack, and Rip started laughing.

"If I'm drunk, what about you? You can't even get a cigarette out of the pack!"

"Shut up." Rich succeeded in pulling a cigarette from the pack and stuffed the pack back into his pocket, only to have more difficulties. "Goddamned lighter."

"Here. Let me." Rip managed to light the flame after a couple of false flicks, and held it to Rich's cigarette.

The light over the clubhouse door barely reached the parking lot where they stood, but the lighter's flame was enough to make Rich's golden hair glow. His lips, pressed around the cigarette, were full and tempting.

Rip took the cigarette from Rich's mouth and kissed him.

For a moment, Rich didn't respond. Then Rip stumbled as Rich grabbed the front of his shirt, spun him around, slammed him against the Kyou and drove his tongue into Rip's mouth. Rich was a little shorter, but Rip slid his legs apart until he could devour Rich's mouth without having to crane his neck. He pulled Rich between his legs, and was happy to find a bulge in Rich's jeans that rubbed against his own rapidly filling cock.

Rich kissed like he talked, hard, sharp and brutal, and Rip groaned in response, giving as good as he got. The kiss turned into a competition, Rip nearly dominating until Rich grabbed his cock through his jeans and squeezed. When Rip yelped, Rich drove home his advantage, and Rip could barely breathe under Rich's skilled assault.

Rip tore his mouth away. "You're gay, too?"

"I don't use labels. And I don't bottom. You're my bitch, got it?" Rich buried his fists in Rip's hair and pulled him back into another kiss.

Rip banged the back of his head as he jerked away. "I'm not anybody's bitch, you bastard." Rich attacked his throat. Rip gave in, turning his head to give Rich better access. "But I'll let you fuck me."

"Get in the car." When Rip started toward the passenger side, Rich yanked him back. "The back seat, idiot. And drop your jeans."

"Jesus! What are we, a couple of high schoolers?"

"You want to fuck, or complain?"

"Asshole." Rip opened the door and climbed into the back seat. "Damn. This is fucking uncomfortable—"

Rich crawled in on top of him and pulled the door shut. "Shove your jeans down."

"You got any lube?"

"Motor oil."

Rip winced. "It'll have to do. Use plenty. It's been a while. And for fuck's sake, don't tear anything down there."

The sounds of their heavy breathing and the soft brush of moving clothes were a huge fucking turn on, Rip decided as he pushed Rich's shirt up and ran his hands over Rich's smooth, hairless chest, rubbing a nipple with his thumb and delighting in Rich's sudden intake of breath. Rip wedged his knees as far apart as he could to give Rich more room and hissed as a warm finger, slick with oil, slid into him. For all of Rich's hard talk, he was surprisingly gentle as he finger-fucked Rip open, and when he pushed his cock in, there was only an intense feeling of pressure and the hot, sexy glide of a hard length stretching Rip's ass. He shivered and grunted with approval.

"Fuck. You're tight." Rich began a slow, rocking pace, which was really all he could do in the tight confines of the Kyou's back seat. Rip reached for his cock and began to jerk himself off. He kissed Rich again, not quite so hard or violent, but still aggressive and sexy as hell. Rich's cock was a good size – not too big, but definitely not small – and he used it the way a cock was meant to be used, pushing deep inside Rip's ass and sending warm tingles through his balls.

"Shit," Rip whispered. "God, feels so good."

"Shut up." Rich claimed his mouth again and pushed in harder. Rip groaned as Rich brushed against his prostate, and his cock jerked in his hand.

"Right there."

Rich grunted and angled himself so that he could hit the sweet spot with every stroke.

The rhythm was perfect. Rip started to fly, losing himself in the hard thrusts of Rich's hips and the tight tunnel of his own hand, the sounds of heavy breathing and sticky, wet flesh slapping, the smell of Rich's sweat and the expensive cologne he was wearing. It had been a long time since he'd let another guy fuck him, and he knew he'd be sore as hell in the morning, but at the moment Rip didn't give a fuck, he just wanted Rich to keep shoving his hard cock into his ass until they both exploded.

Rich grunted again and his rhythm changed.

"Yeah. Fuck me." Sensations built in Rip's cock and balls and ass, and he quickened his own pace, his hand slippery with sweat as he jerked himself faster. "Gonna come."

A few more strokes, and his balls contracted. He strained his hips up as far as he could in the cramped quarters while Rich pounded into him, sweat dripping from his hair onto Rip's face. Rip came, coating his hand and Rich's stomach. Above him, Rich tensed and froze, and Rip could feel warmth flooding his insides.

God, he couldn't remember the last time sex had been so good.

Rich collapsed on top of him and they lay entwined, trying to catch their breath.

"Fuck. I think I strained my back," Rich finally muttered.

"It was good for me, too," Rip said in a sweet voice, then snorted with laughter. "Design the goddamned back seat better next time, asshole."

"Shut up. The guys who buy Kyous don't fuck their mistresses in the back of the fucking car, they fuck them in expensive spas and hotels." Rich carefully backed away and Rip felt his softened cock slip out of his ass. A warm dribble of leaking liquid followed. He grabbed his boxers.

"Your place or mine?" Rip asked, wiping himself clean.

"Mine. I don't like cockroaches."

"I don't have roaches, you fucker."

Rip was elated. It wasn't a one-shot. Rich wanted this, too.

And Rip was determined to keep him wanting it.


	2. Blind Course

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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**Chapter Three**  
_"Why do our hearts pound while we watch a race? Could it be because we instinctively feel the connection between the race and our own lives? Perhaps love is simply a course, and we drive it blindly, but always to win." _  
_Samuel Hastings, _American Circuit_, July XXXX_

  
Rip figured his theory had been proven right. A guy like Rich, someone on a constant simmer, really heated up quick when it came to sex.

Six weeks, and neither of them was tired of it yet. Rip suspected he'd never tire of Rich as a lover, but he tried not to dwell on it too much. Rich didn't seem like the settling-down type, and truth be told, Rip wasn't, either. Still, he had a feeling that if Rich walked, it was going to hurt.

At the moment, however, Rich was giving him the most intense fucking of his life.

"Damn it!" Rip braced himself against the headboard to keep himself from getting plowed into it.

"Shut up." Rip could feel Rich's head press hard between his shoulder blades, the soft hair rubbing his back with every thrust.

Rip tried to laugh, but he didn't have the breath to do it. "You think you can beat me in sex, you've got another think coming."

"I can beat you in any damn thing in the world, asshole." Rich sounded pretty breathless, too.

"Big talk." Rip paused for air. "Tell you what. If you come first, you can buy me dinner tonight."

"Fat chance, loser."

"What? That I'll hold out longer than you?"

"Yeah. And fat chance I'd ever buy you dinner, either."

"I'm partial to really good steak and seaf-aagh! Oh, fuck!"

"I told you to shut up." Rich sounded smug through his breathlessness.

Rip could only moan as Rich continued to batter his prostate without mercy. God, the guy was good. Rip couldn't remember a lover who had half the skill and intensity, and definitely not one who could keep up with his sex drive. He gasped as a particularly deep thrust made his cock jump.

A warm hand closed around his dick and began to move.

"Ahh! You cheating bastard!"

Rich flicked Rip's slit with a thumbnail and Rip plunged forward, hitting his forehead hard on the headboard as he came, his orgasm intense and devastating. He groaned in pained delight and felt Rich stiffen behind him.

Rip's arms gave way and they collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, Rich still buried deep inside Rip. They both lay motionless, Rich's heavy breaths warm on Rip's ear.

God, it felt good to have Rich draped over him like that. Rip's eyes closed and he started drifting.

The weight disappeared and the bed dipped.

"I'm taking a shower."

"Go 'head," Rip mumbled. A couple of minutes later, the water started running, a soothing background to Rip's satiation.

He was almost asleep when his cell started playing. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and reached for his jeans. Fumbling through the pockets, he finally found his phone.

"'Lo?"

"Rip? It's Joe. Where are you?"

"Out. What d'you want?" Rip stifled a yawn.

"The search engine sponsor backed out."

Rip cursed under his breath. Not again. "That's the fourth one."

"Yeah. I don't know what's going on."

Neither did Rip. "Right. I'll meet you at my place in an hour, okay?"

"Uh, Sam and I were going to go to Baloo's for lunch at eleven. Can you meet us there?"

"Does Sam know about the sponsors?" Guilty silence met his question, and Rip sighed. "Don't worry about it. He was bound to find out sooner or later." He glanced at the clock. "If I'm not there by eleven, start without me. I'll get there as quick as I can."

"Thanks, Rip. See you!"

Rip flipped the cell shut. "Fuck!" He rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. Four sponsors, all of them reliable, all of them supportive in the past, but they were pulling out one after another. He only had one left, and he doubted the company would be willing to pick up the whole tab for the race. He needed to find at least one more, preferably two or three, or he'd have to forfeit.

The water stopped, and Rip figured he'd better get moving. He was just pulling on his jeans when Rich came back into the bedroom, rubbing a towel through his hair. He raised an eyebrow.

Rip grabbed his shirt and pulled it on over his head, then reached for his watch. "Something came up."

Rich shrugged and opened the closet. "Don't let me stop you."

Rip pushed down his irritation at being dismissed so easily. "Tonight?"

"What about it?"

"Roses and candlelight. Jesus. What the fuck do you think I meant?"

"You want to fuck some more?"

"Yeah. That."

Rich shrugged again. "I don't have anything better to do." He pulled a shirt from a hanger.

"I'll see you at eight, then." Rip knew it wasn't realistic to think that Rich would ever act like a normal lover, but it sure would be nice if he sounded a little more enthusiastic.

"You're the one who's desperate for it."

"I'm not the only one," Rip muttered. He grabbed his cell from the nightstand and looked around to see if he'd missed anything, then left without saying another word.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Half an hour later, Rip reached the restaurant and slid into the booth next to Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam pause and then glance at him, a speculative look on his face.

_Shit. I should've showered instead of coming straight here._ Joe never seemed to notice, but Sam noticed everything. Rip turned to him, but Sam just shook his head, gave him a small, understanding smile, and handed him a menu.

"Joe and I have already ordered. The waiter said the spareribs are very good today."

"I ordered three of 'em." Joe had already finished their basket of chips and salsa, Rip noticed. Not even bad news could stunt the kid's appetite.

Rip ordered the ribs, too, then took a sip of his beer. "You know about the sponsors, huh?"

Sam nodded. "Joe told me. I won't publish it unless you think the publicity might attract new ones."

Rip shook his head. "No. Better not make it public. The thing I can't figure out is what the hell's going on? These guys have been great in the past. And they were ecstatic about the Sun and Moon, I swear. But only the cigarette guys are left."

"Uh, Rip…" Joe looked upset.

"You don't mean…? Aw, fuck." Rip put down his beer and banged his head against the back of the booth. "That's the last of 'em, then."

"We'll get new ones." But Joe didn't sound as certain as he usually did.

"Yeah. Somewhere." For the life of him, though, Rip wasn't sure where. It took time to build a relationship with a sponsor, especially one with enough money to foot a race. His rep would help, but with the recession and all, a lot of the companies that had sponsored drivers in the past had pulled out of the circuit. "You think NASCAR might want to use rallying to get more fans?"

Sam looked sympathetic. "I have some contacts. Perhaps they can help."

Rip shook his head. "Thanks, but it's too risky. You've been able to explain away hanging out with us as being part of your research, but if you start asking sponsors to help us, you're as screwed as we are. People will think you're biased."

"I'm sorry. You're right, of course."

"Fuck. Well, it is what it is – that dragons and birds and shit thing. Have him tell it to you sometime," he said, turning to Joe. "Maybe it'll make sense to you." Rip grinned, even though his heart wasn't in it. "Fuck it. That shit can all wait until after lunch. Hey, Sam. How about you interview me, then pay our lunch tab and call it business expenses?"

Sam and Joe laughed and the three of them joked until their lunches arrived. The company helped, and once they'd cleaned their plates, Rip felt more relaxed. He laid his arm along the back of the booth and sipped his fresh beer.

Sam glanced over at him. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Racing. Being in a competition."

"It's like…" Rip didn't know how to explain it. "It's like you're really alive."

Sam seemed to understand, because he nodded his head and reached for his own beer. "Would there be any chance that you might let me experience it?"

"Sure. I can take you out on a course if you want."

Sam shook his head. "I meant a real race."

Rip put his beer down and looked at Sam with disbelief. "Fuck no! It's too fucking dangerous for an amateur!"

"I've been in dangerous situations before." Sam's voice was calm, as if what he was asking was sane and reasonable. Rip stared as Sam sipped his beer.

"Why don't you let him go with you on a practice run?" Joe asked.

Rip blinked. "That's not any safer!"

"Sam can handle it, I bet." Joe looked at Sam with a thoughtful expression. "He's tougher than he looks."

_Like a catamount._ "It's not safe," Rip repeated, but Sam just smiled into his beer.

"I'm free this afternoon," he said.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Sam had a scary habit of getting his own way, Rip was coming to realize.

"Okay, you're suited up and buckled in." Rip sent a silent prayer to whatever deities watched over idiots who gave in against their better judgement. "Have you been inside a rally car before?"

"No. I know that they're production model cars, and I've looked inside them, but I don't pretend to know anything beyond that."

"Good, because saying you know something you don't is dangerous in rallying." Rip pointed at the dash. "A quick rundown on how rally cars are different than a showroom model. Regular dashboard, but the odometer gives you to the hundredth of a mile and there's a timer there. It's tripped by infrared when you cross the start of a special stage, and tripped again when you finish it. She's got a built-in roll cage, five-point safety belts, fire extinguishers for the driver and for the nav, skid plates – basically, she's as safe as possible if we get into trouble."

"I trust your driving skills."

"Thanks, but don't." Rip sighed. "Don't take off the helmet, and no matter how fucking hot you get, don't take off the firesuit, got it? I'm not planning to do anything dangerous, but sometimes that's when the worst things happen."

"I understand."

"Right. Next, here's the route book."

"I've seen these before. Terrain notes and drawings and mileage information, correct?"

"Basically, yeah. It gets us from location to location, and sets us up for each special stage. You use it to tell me where to go and how far, and I push the car as hard as I can once we're driving a stage. If there are any road problems I need to know about, let me know ahead of time what they are and how far I've got before I hit them."

"I can do that."

"I know this track, so even if you get something wrong, I'll know."

Sam looked mildly amused. "Fair enough."

"Joe's going to follow us on a 'bike, in case we get into trouble."

"Your faith in my inability is staggering," Sam murmured.

"People call me a risk-taker, and they're right," Rip said sharply. "That doesn't mean taking stupid risks, though."

"You're right. And of course, this is my first time." Sam appeared to be suitable chastened, though Rip caught a glint in Sam's eyes before his cheerful smile masked his face.

"You're pretty cocky."

Sam met his gaze. "With good reason, I've found. But of course, this may prove to be my Waterloo."

"Hope not. People died there." Rip slapped Sam's shoulder. "So, Mr. Nav, what do we do from here?"

"It appears that you'll need to drive three point zero five miles on service road A…"

Sam took them from the beginning of the course to the first time point clearly and concisely, without Joe's vague, "there's some rocky thing coming in point six four," to clarify, like 'rocky thing on the left?' or 'fucking hell that's a cliff face, you moron!'

Sam checked the page as the first timing point came into view. "Twelve inch deep ford, eight feet across, and keep to the left as we come out to avoid imaginary spectators. Timing starts mid-stream."

"Right." Rip shifted and floored the accelerator, launching them at the stream. There was a jolt and a splash, and something grated along the underside of the Jeep, then they roared up the other bank and slewed to the left at a comfortable sixty-two mph over the rocky ground. Sam grabbed the dash, but though his knuckles were a little white, his voice remained calm.

"S-curve in point one zero, culvert and rock face on the inside, then curve outside and a hard right in point zero one into the mountain stretch. Then a narrow road with two feet of clearance on either side, cliff on the inside, drop-off on the outside, slow curve to the right and downhill for point three seven."

"I love this fucking part of the course." Rip grinned as he fishtailed around the culvert, keeping the Jeep tight to the rock face to avoid the soft dirt on the outside, then sped into the bottom of the 'S'.

They came out of the curve at near-race speed, gravel flying as Rip hauled the Jeep into position for the long curve that hugged the side of the mountain. He clutched, shifted down a gear, then stepped on the brake pedal so he wouldn't overshoot the route and fly the Jeep off the edge of the cliff.

Nothing happened. He automatically yanked the emergency brake, but the Jeep didn't respond.

"Shit! No brakes!"

Rip gripped the wheel with both hands, his knuckles white as he fought to pull the Jeep through the corner, but she was flying, just like he'd told her to do, and the tires weren't gripping. The valley yawned, full of toothy trees and hurtling toward them.

They weren't going to make it. "Hang on, we're going over!"

"Those rocks," Sam pointed, his voice strained. "Rip, can you hit them at an angle?"

Immediately, it was as clear to Rip as a pool shot. "Damn right I can," he said, shifting into first before he twisted the wheel hard right and let the Jeep go into a skid toward the boulders, the engine howling in protest as Rip tried to decrease their speed. The Jeep lurched as one of its back tires slid over the edge, and he held his breath as the awful weightless feeling grew stronger. Then there was a sudden jolt and the scream of rending metal and they were spinning, still out of control but toward the mountain, not toward the deadly open air.

They slammed to a halt. Rip cut the engine and reached over to unsnap Sam's harness. He could smell gas, which wasn't good. He tugged at Sam. "You okay? We gotta get out, in case the fuel catches from the hot engine."

"I'm fine," Sam gasped. "My door won't open, though."

"It's shoved against the side of the mountain." Rip unbuckled his own harness and kicked his door open, pulling Sam over the gearshift and out the driver's side door.

They scrambled away from the Jeep just as Joe came up on the bike, dirt and gravel spewing as he slid to a stop beside them. His eyes were huge.

"What happened? You guys okay?"

Sam nodded. "We lost control."

"The brakes went." Rip unstrapped his helmet and took it off. "What the fuck? We checked her over last night."

"I did the brakes myself," Joe said, ashen. "They were fine, Rip, I swear."

"I believe you." Rip ran his trembling hand through his hair. "Shit. Sam. Damn. If you hadn't pointed out those rocks—"

"I was a embedded journalist in a convoy in Iraq and a bomb went off on the mountain road we were on," Sam said, taking off his helmet, too. His face was pale, but composed. "I saw the driver do something similar."

"He should be driving the circuit, then." Joe's tone was reverent. "If it had been me beside Rip, we would have been goners."

"You got his name?" Rip asked. "'Cause I want to buy the bastard the biggest damn drink this side of Texas."

"Shrapnel hit his femoral artery." Sam's voice was quiet. "We couldn't stop the bleeding."

"Fuck." Rip closed his eyes.

They fell silent.

Joe fumbled in his pocket and drew out his cell. "Uh, I guess I'll call it in, then."

"Yeah." Rip looked at the Jeep. "She's not going anywhere on her own, that's for sure."

The Jeep ticked quietly to herself as the hot metal cooled. One tire had burst, and it was pretty obvious that the frame was bent. Rip couldn't see the passenger side, but imagined that it probably looked at least as bad as his side, which was a mass of scraped and twisted metal where they'd hit the rocks.

Sam glanced at him sympathetically. "How many cars do you have?"

"Three, but one's already in the shop for a frame rebuild. I guess she'll have some company." Rip shrugged and tilted his head toward a small stand of trees. "Let's wait over there. The tow truck might take a while."

"I'm sorry," Sam said as they walked over to the scant shade offered by the trees. "This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been so insistent."

"It's okay. I don't have another race until the Sun and Moon, and that's still six months away. I'm headed out to northern California in a week to do some rugged beach driving, then down to Florida for some soft ground and wet ground practice. In October I'll probably head out to Denver for snow and ice." He dropped to the ground and stretched out under a tree.

Sam sat next to him. "You expect that Hearst's course will be diverse, don't you?"

"He's holding it in Vancouver and designing it to test us. The area around there has it all. Beaches, mountains, snow, rocks, swamp, you name it. I've got to be ready for anything." Rip shifted, uncomfortable. "You did a hell of a good job for your first time navving."

"Thank you."

"I don't suppose you know anything about cars?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

Rip grunted, frowning. He'd been worried about having Joe as his nav for the blind race. The kid was great, one of the best, in fact, but he ran races by the book, didn't use his eyes like Rip did, and like Sam had when they'd lost control. Rip figured the course would be more than just tricky, it would be downright dangerous, knowing Hearst's designs. Both he and his nav would have to keep their eyes sharp. His instincts told him that Sam would be perfect, with some intensive training.

But Sam was a journalist, not a racer, and it sounded like he knew shit about cars. Rip wished that he could somehow combine Sam and Joe into one person, but his gut told him that only one of them was the best nav when it came to the Sun and Moon.

"I've always wanted to write a biography," Sam said, startling Rip from his thoughts. He smiled at Rip. "It would be much more exciting for readers if I were able to write from the viewpoint of sharing the same experiences as my subject, instead of simply researching and conducting interviews."

Was Sam reading his mind? "Which one of us? Rich? Or me?"

"Both, actually." Sam leaned back against a tree. "I want to write a book about the Sun and Moon." His voice was wistful.

Well, his instincts usually steered him right. _Sorry, Joe._ Rip took a deep breath. "Would you be willing to train hard for the next six months? And I don't mean just navving. I mean mechanics, safety, track etiquette, first aid in the field, the works."

"Oh, yes," Sam whispered. His eyes were bright and sharp. "Would you be willing to teach me?"

"Only if Joe's still part of the team. He's the one to teach you the ropes about real navving, plus the guy's brilliant when it comes to diagnosing and fixing car problems when we don't have access to the maintenance crew during a special stage. But it's only for the Sun and Moon."

"I could never replace Joe."

"No," Rip agreed. "When can you start?"

 

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Once they got the Jeep back to the shop, Rip learned that her frame and undercarriage had been badly damaged, with both brake and fuel lines torn, probably when they'd bottomed out in the stream, he guessed. The diagnosis was disheartening, especially the frame damage, but at least her problems hadn't been caused by negligence. He reported the incident to the course officials, and they promised to do road work on the course.

After a shower and a quick sandwich, Rip showed up at Rich's place at eight sharp.

Rich grunted as he opened the door. "Get in if you're coming."

"I don't mind coming out here if you don't want to waste time." Rip leaned against the doorframe and leered.

Rich shot him a disgusted look. "I've got neighbors. If anyone finds out about this, it's over."

As much as Rip wanted to contradict Rich, he couldn't, so he followed him inside. Rich closed the door and slammed Rip against it. He pressed into Rip, kissing him hard.

"Damn, you're hot for it." Rip said when Rich moved to his throat. Rich grabbed his cock and squeezed, making Rip curse in pained lust. He fumbled with the zip on Rich's jeans and pulled out his cock.

Rip was totally turned on by Rich's need, and couldn't resist teasing him. "What the fuck kind of name is Sterling, anyway? What's your middle name, Silver?"

"Pound," Rich said shortly.

"Your dad was a real bastard, wasn't he?"

Rich grunted. "He had a lousy sense of humor." He rubbed the heel of his palm hard over the bulge in Rip's jeans.

Rip bucked into the pressure. "Must be why you don't have any."

"Shut up and suck me, asshole."

"If I swallow, you buy me dinner tomorrow."

"Maybe."

"Good enough." Rip fell to his knees and set to his task with enthusiasm.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

**Chapter Four **

_"The cynics amongst us point to the undeniable presence of money behind the most successful rally competitors, and speak of the sport in terms of a commodity. I personally believe that money is simply the oil that lubricates the engine – the race belongs to the driver, not the sponsors."  
Samuel Hastings, excerpt from live interview on _CNN Sports_, August XXXX_

  
Rip turned up at Rich's house late the night he got back from his mid-August trip to Florida, carrying bribes in the form of booze and pizza. Rich never seemed to eat, and Rip figured that pizza had enough calories and toppings to have a nodding acquaintance with nutrition, or at least provide some high octane fuel for sex.

Rich didn't say anything when he opened the door, just turned and headed toward the study. Rip followed, a little surprised that Rich wasn't headed for the bedroom, but intrigued by the thought of seeing Rich in a more mellow mood.

Rip had been in the study a couple of times, but they tended to spend more time around the bedroom and living room areas when he was over. Rich headed straight to the huge, brightly-lit drafting table covered with blueprints and drafting tools. A couple of big leather recliners and some smaller end tables clustered in front of the fireplace. They looked forlorn and abandoned.

"Are you up for this?" Rip frowned. "You look tired."

Rich shrugged. "I'm on a deadline." He ran his hand through hair already dishevelled, knocking his reading glasses to the floor. He cursed and stared at them, clearly exhausted.

Rip cleared some space on an end table by pushing off its magazines, and set the pizza, beer and bottle of Hudson on it. "Look. Grab some pizza while I get us some glasses."

When Rip came back from the kitchen a couple of minutes later, Rich was sitting at the drafting table wearing his glasses. The pizza box was untouched. Shaking his head, Rip put a couple of slices on a plate, poured Rich's whiskey, grabbed a beer and dragged a second end table next to Rich's chair.

He put the whiskey in Rich's hand. Rich took an sip, then set it blindly on the end table and picked up a drafting pen. Rip looked over his shoulder.

"New specs for the Kyou, huh?"

Rich grunted. "I want to make her aerodynamic without making her look like an egg or a lizard."

Rip snorted. "She looks like a cheetah to me."

Rich didn't reply, but he seemed to relax a bit. Rip used the opportunity to shove a piece of pizza in his hand. Rich took an absent-minded bite, still staring at the drawing, then laid the slice next to his drink, Rip slipping a plate under it in time.

The car really did look like a cheetah, all clean lines and sexy curves and obviously built for speed. He picked up the interior specs. "Did you remember to make the back seat bigger?"

Rich dropped his head and rubbed his eyes behind the glasses. "You're an asshole."

"And you're exhausted. Put it away for the night. You'll be fresher in the morning. When are the specs due?"

"In a week." Rich dropped his hand. "But I want to head out to Virginia on Tuesday."

"That gives you three days."

"I can't sleep."

"I'll put you to sleep. Come here." He pulled Rich to his feet and made him sit down in one of the recliners, pulling the table with his drink and partially-eaten slice over to sit by his elbow. "You finish the pizza I gave you while I set things up, okay?"

Rich didn't bother to answer, but he picked up his whiskey glass and took a swallow, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Rip turned on the gas fire – damn the air conditioning, they needed mood at the moment – turned off the bright worktable lamps, made sure that Rich was nibbling at his pizza in between sips of booze, and pulled the glasses from Rich's face. He headed for the bathroom and rummaged until he found a bottle of almond oil, then went back to the study.

Rip was relieved to see the empty plate and glass sitting on the table next to Rich. He set down the oil and stripped his shirt off, then knelt in front of Rich. "Lean forward so I can take your shirt off."

Once Rich was bare from the waist up, Rip put a hand between his shoulder blades to keep him from sitting back up. "Just relax. I want to work on your neck and shoulders. You've probably been sitting at that damned table all day."

Rich grunted, but remained slumped forward. Rip quickly warmed up some oil between his hands and began to work.

Rich's skin was smooth, almost as smooth as a woman's, but the muscles that lay underneath were masculine and hard. Rip worked at the knots, pleased to feel the muscles gradually relax under his hands. When they were loose and warm, he gently coaxed Rich upright, then straddled the chair and started working on the front of Rich's shoulders. He could feel Rich's cock start to poke his ass.

"Keep your eyes closed," he murmured. He stood up, slipped off his jeans and boxers, then straddled the chair again, rocking slowly against the swelling in Rich's jeans and rubbing his own erect cock against Rich's stomach. "Keep 'em closed," he repeated as he eased Rich's zip down and freed his eager cock. He coated it with some almond oil, then guided it to his ass.

They both groaned as Rip slid onto Rich's cock. He settled until their groins were pressed together, then leaned forward and began to explore Rich's face with soft kisses while he started to rock his hips.

Rich was just so fucking beautiful. Rip placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, then one on his throat, just below his ear, and another on one closed eye, the soft lashes brushing his lips as he kept moving his hips at a slow, relaxing pace. When he worked his way back to Rich's mouth, Rich opened to him, their tongues caressing.

Rip wasn't sure if he'd ever received such sweet kisses before in his life, certainly not from Rich. Tender, peaceful, open, they made Rip's heart swell with some unknown but powerful emotion that both terrified and thrilled him. Careful to maintain the delicate balance between stimulation and relaxation, Rip kept rocking until Rich shuddered and gasped into his mouth and he could feel Rich's cock pulse deep inside him. His own climax overtook him a moment later, smooth and strangely intimate, given how much sex they'd had over the past weeks.

Afterward, they continued kissing until Rich's cock slipped from Rip's ass in a soft tumble, then Rip climbed off and led Rich to the bedroom and put him to bed, where he held Rich in his arms until Rich's breathing was soft and regular.

Rip fell asleep wondering how much longer they could keep their affair a secret.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip bit his thumb and gripped the cell tighter, not daring to hope he'd heard right. "You're not shitting me, are you, Joe?"

Joe sounded crazy happy. "It's true! You got a call from Patrick Hearst and he's got a sponsor lined up who'll take care of everything! He needs you to fly out to California to meet with him and sign the papers."

Rip slumped into a chair, the relief overwhelming. "Fuck. When does he need me?"

"Tomorrow. He booked you a flight and emailed the ticket an hour ago."

"Right." What a fucking miracle. He wondered how Hearst had found out about his sponsors bailing on him, but the racing world was a small one, and careful as Rip had been, he'd actually been surprised that he'd been able to hide his trouble for as long as he had. "Tell him I'm coming."

"Okay. By the way, are you gonna be home tonight? I stopped by last night to see you, but you weren't around."

Christ. Poor Joe. Rip hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks, and he'd been training Sam all on his own. "Yeah, sorry about that. I'll be home tonight. Why don't you come over around seven, we can order Chinese."

"Great! I'll bring Sam!"

Before Rip could say anything else, Joe had hung up. Rip disconnected and slid his cell back in his pocket, shaking his head. He'd better go home, unpack and repack. He'd come straight to Rich's from the airport the night before, only stopping for pizza and booze, and he really needed fresh clothes and the comfort of his own place for a little while.

Rich was back at the drafting table. He was also back to his usual pissy self. Rip stuck his head in the doorway.

"I'm heading out. I won't be back for a couple of days. I've gotta fly to California for some business. If I don't see you before you go, kiss a Virginia girl for me, will you? And give her plenty of tongue."

"Fuck off before I shoot you, asshole." Rich made it sound like he really might put bullets in the gun this time, and Rip grinned.

"Ciao, baby."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Hearst sent a limo to meet Rip at the airport. The Los Angeles traffic was as shitty as ever, but the driver was good, and about an hour after he'd got off his flight, Rip was sitting in a deep leather chair sipping a scotch on ice while Hearst finished a phone call.

He'd seen Hearst from a distance several times, but he wasn't anything like Rip imagined he'd be now that he sat across from him in his huge, glass-walled office that overlooked the corner of Rodeo Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard. Tall, thin, with shaggy black hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and a strangely piercing gaze, almost as if he could see inside a person, Hearst looked more like a know-it-all computer nerd than a successful investor and professional rally course designer. There was an intensity to him that Rip found unsettling.

"Have you carried out my instructions? And witnessed it yourself? Good, good. Let me know if there are any new developments." Hearst hung up the phone and leaned toward Rip, a smile on his face. "I'm so sorry to make you wait. I hope your flight was comfortable?"

"Yeah. Thanks for flying me out here and everything, Mr. Hearst."

"Oh, you're quite welcome. And call me Patrick, please. I think we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other, so there's no need to be formal."

Rip wondered what he meant, but figured he must be referring to the race. While he'd never interacted with Hearst directly before, like everyone else on the circuit, he'd driven Hearst's courses many times. They were always tricky – almost wicked – and you could get yourself into some serious trouble if you didn't know what you were doing. "You can call me Rip. I was surprised to get your message."

"I imagine. I need to warn you, the offer itself is quite unusual. The corporation that made the offer wishes to remain anonymous."

Rip set down his glass. "Wait. How would it work if nobody knows who they are? The whole point to sponsorships is the exposure and advertising that they can get from me being in the race."

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they prefer to remain anonymous until the actual contract has been signed." Hearst examined his fingernails. "You see, the corporation isn't interested in advertising. They're interested in making an investment."

"What do you mean?"

"A long term contract, during which you generate income for them."

Rip frowned. "But they'll make more money from me by selling a product than they will by investing in my winnings."

"I think you underestimate your potential selling power." Hearst looked up, and the smile on his face made Rip uneasy. "It's not just race winnings, but all of the other lucrative ways that they could market your services."

Every instinct Rip possessed told him to refuse the contract. He stood. "You make me sound like a call girl. I don't think I'm interested in hearing any more, Mr. Hearst. I appreciate your time. I'm happy to reimburse you for the flight and everything, since you took the trouble to see me in person."

"I suppose, in a way, it is akin to prostituting oneself." Hearst seemed pretty amused, and Rip's bad feeling intensified. "For instance, the corporation might market your driving talents to others."

"I'm independent." Rip struggled to control his anger. "I don't drive for anybody else."

"Or perhaps they might offer you as a spokesperson for other companies. You've endorsed products before, haven't you? Isn't it quite lucrative?"

"I don't have the selling power of a football player or a basketball player. They're the guys that get the big bucks."

"It seems like you're determined to undersell yourself, Rip." Hearst leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Do you want to drive in the Sun and Moon?"

"Yeah. But not bad enough to sell my soul."

"How about badly enough to keep a secret?"

Rip's mouth went dry. "What are you talking about?"

Hearst peered at him over the top of his glasses, a shrewd look on his face. "I know about your affair with Sterling Rich. He's quite attractive, isn't he? I'm quite sure he's worth the risk."

Rip's heart stumbled and began to pound. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We have it on good authority. The best, actually. Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

Hearst knew, and what was worse, Rip's gut was telling him it was no bluff. He didn't bother to deny it anymore, and sat down again. "Rich would never say something like that."

"How well do you know Sterling, Rip? How well do you _really_ know him? For instance, did you know that his corporation isn't really his, but that in fact I own a controlling interest in it? That he works for me?"

Rip shook his head. "It doesn't matter who his business partners are. I know Rich."

"Do you know how truly determined he is to be the best? How he's sworn to use whatever means needed to ensure that he wins every race?"

"Rich isn't like that."

Hearst smiled condescendingly. "Do you know about his reputation for retaliatory behaviour? He hates to be humiliated. Do you know what he's done to pay back people who have humiliated him in the past?"

"Wait a minute. I've never humiliated Rich—"

"You issued a public challenge. You impugned his skills. You tarnished his name."

Rip flushed. "Not personally."

"Of course not. You did worse." Hearst leaned forward. "You threatened his career."

"I don't believe you. Rich might shoot someone, but he'd never be underhanded like that."

"Sterling is spoiled, taciturn, rude and carries a Colt. Ooops. He _carried_ a Colt. Until your actions resulted in its confiscation, and nearly lost him his club win. Only a small victory, perhaps, but it infuriated him nonetheless, didn't it?"

"He got over it pretty damned fast. We went out drinking afterward."

"Revenge is sweet, especially when you're fucking your competition's ass."

"He's not like that."

"Then explain how I know about your liaisons. Explain these." Hearst opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across his desk to Rip.

Rip stared at it. A New York postage frank, neat, precise lettering spelling out Hearst's name and address. It had already been opened.

He knew what would be in it before he took the papers out. Photos of him and Rich in Rich's bedroom. In Rich's study. In Rich's shower. In Rich's fucking Kyou.

Sex photos.

"He never went to your place, did he? He never met you anywhere but at his home, in fact."

Rip refused to believe Hearst's accusations. "Rich didn't have these photos taken."

"He's been playing you all along. Sterling doesn't have a heart. He never has. He's a beautiful, ruthless, angel of hell. Which, of course, is why he wins his races."

Rip shook his head. "He isn't faking the relationship. I'd know."

"But did he ever seem to enjoy it? Intimately, I mean. Emotionally." Hearst's eyes wandered up and down Rip's body. "I'm sure he enjoyed the carnal side. You're quite attractive, even if someone wouldn't normally be interested in men."

"Fuck off!"

Hearst kept talking, his eyes bright and watchful. "Which brings up another point. What do you think your fans would do if they learned that you were gay?"

He'd been so careful. He'd dated women occasionally to cover for himself. Except for Rich, he'd only had one-night stands with other men, always with guys who had never even heard of rally racing.

But Sam had found out, and Sam didn't have the resources that Hearst had. It looked like he hadn't been as careful as he'd thought.

Hearst was lying about Rich, Rip was sure of it. Which meant that if Hearst outed Rip, Rich would be hurt, too.

Accept the contract, lose his independence and race?

Or refuse it, and watch his career, and probably Rich's, go down the drain?

"You planned this. You're the reason my sponsors walked." Rip could hardly force the words out. "Give me an out or I'm walking, too."

A triumphant smile flickered across Hearst's face and disappeared. "If you win the race, you'll have enough money to pay back the loan. I'm sure you can work the interest off in time."

"Not good enough," Rip replied, his voice hoarse and strained in his ears. "I want a chance to have a completely clean slate. If I don't, then tell the world I'm queer and go to hell, you bastard. I won't care anymore."

"I believe you're serious." Hearst looked thoughtful. "I don't have any aversion to gambling. What do you propose?"

Rip thought fast. "It needs to be written in the contract that if I place in the race, this deal is wiped out. The contract is null. I go back to my independent driving, and your corporation doesn't take any actions to prevent me from continuing my racing career."

"Now that hardly seems sporting. Place? My client would have quite a bit invested in you. I think that at the least, you'd be kind enough to give them a win. In fact, I'm sure that they would insist on it. A win – outracing Sterling – or your long-term services."

Rip knew it was the best deal he was going to get. "Right. Done. I want to see you write it, I want you to sign and I want a copy. I'll also wait until I see a copy for my attorney given directly to a U.S. Postal employee and a duplicate sent by a courier service. And I witness that, too."

"Trust is so rare. Such a precious commodity." Hearst shook his head and pressed a button on his desk. "William?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you draft a codicil to the contract and have it ready for us to sign in, say, fifteen minutes?"

"Of course, Mr. Hearst."

"That's fine. Bring it in when you're finished. Oh, and you don't need to bother knocking. We'll be waiting."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
The next hour passed in a blur, as Rip read over the contract and signed his name. He wasn't surprised to learn there was no corporation, just Hearst.

After the papers were signed, Rip went with William to see the copies were safely sent to his lawyer. William escorted him back to Hearst's office when they were done, and bowed to Hearst as he closed the door and left the two of them alone in the room together. The click of the latch sounded like the final rifle cock of a firing squad to Rip.

Hearst looked satisfied, almost predatory. He smiled at Rip.

"I'd like to invite you to an intimate dinner. Say, my house, at eight?"

Rip felt like throwing up. "I don't put out."

"If you read your contract, you'll realize that I own you, Rip. Rather like a slave, in fact. If I want something from you, you must be prepared to give it."

"That's only in my professional capacity as a driver."

Hearst's smile didn't fade. "Interpretations are always tricky. Are you prepared to drag this through the courts? All sorts of embarrassing facts might come out."

"Sue me and be damned, then. I'm not whoring for you."

"Mmmm." Hearst stood and walked around his desk, stopping so close to Rip that Rip could feel the heat from his body through his clothes. He stared straight ahead, not making eye contact, as Hearst leaned against the desk beside him.

"Such a beautiful man," Hearst murmured. He took Rip's chin in his hand and turned his face until Rip was looking at Hearst. Rip's heart pounded; he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach.

Hearst smiled and drew nearer. "I imagine that you're quite skilled sexually. Those lips would look lovely wrapped around my cock."

Rip shuddered. "Try anything, and I go straight to the cops."

Hearst just smiled.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
For the second time in three days, Rip drove straight from the airport to Rich's house.

It was over. Rip knew Rich would never continue their relationship now that Hearst knew about them.

But Rip owed it to Rich to warn him. Maybe Rich could find a way out for himself, something that would cover his ass. Then at least one of them might be able to get out of this with his career intact.

Rip pulled into the driveway and parked, but didn't get out of the car right away. He'd been thinking about how he should approach Rich the entire flight back to New York, but all it came down to in the end was that he needed to talk to Rich face to face, see him one last time, even if it meant Rich shot him afterward.

He couldn't tell Rich everything. Just that they'd been found out, and that he was breaking it off, and that he'd still beat Rich's ass in the Sun and Moon, as sick as the thought of driving the race made him.

He rang Rich's doorbell, still at a loss as to how to break the news.

When Rich opened the door, Rip had a sinking feeling in his gut. Rich looked furious. Rip took a deep breath. "I've got something to tell you—"

Rich yanked Rip inside and dragged him into the study, where he shoved Rip into a chair. "You sorry bastard. You had to come after me. You couldn't leave it alone." Rich's voice was cold and hard enough to cut diamonds. "What the hell was I supposed to do? It's all your fucking fault!"

Did Rich know—? "Wait a second. What are you talking about?"

"You ruined your own career, but I'm damned if you'll ruin mine!"

Rip stared at Rich in disbelief. "Jesus. I don't know if we're talking about the same thing, but I came here to warn you, you bastard!"

Rich laughed, a bitter, nasty sound. "You pathetic asshole! Warn me? I've known what was going to happen from the beginning. This was the only way it could end. I'm damned if you pull me down with you!"

"I'm not trying to pull anyone anywhere!" Rip shouted, exasperated. "Fuck! I'm the one having to deal with this, not you—" His eyes fell on a familiar-looking envelope, and the array of photos that were scattered across the drafting table. "What's that?" He stood and walked over to the table.

"What the fuck do you think it is?"

Rip didn't bother to do more than glance at the photos, just long enough to see that they were the same as he'd already seen, with maybe a couple he hadn't seen in Hearst's office. Instead, he slowly picked up the envelope.

It was identical to the one in Hearst's office, a heavy parchment saturated with the exclusive air of a rich man's possessions. The specs it was sitting on top of were lettered in a precise, familiar-looking hand.

The envelope was blank. No address, no franking. In fact, it was pristine. Never been sealed. Never been used.

Though an identical one had been. Had been mailed from New York. With pictures taken in this house.

Phrases ran through Rip's head and took on new meaning.

_ I've known what was going to happen from the beginning._

This was the only way it could end.

What was I suppose to do?

I'm damned if you pull me down with you!

"I can't believe this is happening. I believed in you, you bastard. I thought he was lying." The room spun as Rip realized just how stupid he'd been. He met Rich's furious gaze. "Jesus Christ. Did you have to be so fucking cruel about it?"

For a moment, the anger wavered and Rich looked blank. Then it returned, so strong that Rip took an involuntary step backward and dropped the envelope back on the drafting table.

"Get the hell out of my house!"

_You fucking bastard. Not even the balls to take responsibility for this fucking mess._ Rip clenched his fists. Rich had played him like a pro fly fisherman, hooking him, letting him run almost free, and reeling him into the net. "I'm going. But I swear, I'm never going to lose to you again."

Rip whirled and stalked out of the house, hearing the door slam shut behind him. He backed out of the driveway in a whirl of burning rubber and spun his car into a tight one-eighty when she hit the street.

He needed to find some booze.

A lot of booze.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
"Jus' leave me the fuck alone!" Rip pushed away Joe's hand.

"You're drunk, Rip. The bartender called and asked me to come get you."

"Fuck off." The room spun, and Rip grabbed the table. Too much more of this and he'd start puking. But the hole inside still threatened to swallow him, so he needed more booze. "Leave me alone."

Joe glared at him and then walked away.

Rip poured himself another bourbon, grimly pleased that some hit the glass. He tipped the glass back and drank, the booze burning all the way down.

Rich. That goddamned bastard. The whole time, setting him up. And he'd let the fucking bastard fuck his ass, and loved it, and how fucking dare Rich make him feel that good when he was secretly stabbing him in the back. It was worse than if he'd let Hearst fuck him – at least then, he'd have hated every minute of it, not felt like the world had been pulled out from under him like he felt now.

Someone shook his shoulder. "Hey."

"Fuck off," Rip mumbled.

"I'm gonna wait here with you, okay?" Joe pulled a chair out and sat down next to Rip. "You okay?"

"Fine. Dandy. Fine an' dandy." Rip tilted the bottle toward the glass again, but Joe took it away from him.

"You look like you feel like shit, so I'm not letting you make yourself feel any shittier, got it?"

It took a minute for Rip to work out what Joe had said, but it finally sank in that he wasn't getting more booze if Joe held the bottle. "Give it back."

"Later. I've got some coffee for you. Coffee and bourbon go good together, so drink it."

Rip glared at the steaming cup. "I hate coffee."

"You'll love this coffee. I put lots of sugar in it."

Sweet coffee actually didn't sound bad, so Rip took a cautious sip, ignoring Joe, who held the cup steady for him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

Fuck. It was Sam. And Sam was being cheerful, which pissed Rip off, because it meant Sam was being fake. He hated it when Sam was fake. "Fuck off!"

"He says that to everybody," Joe explained. "Nothing personal."

"I suspect that something quite personal is the cause of this, however." Sam sat on Rip's other side. "How long has he been like this?"

"I just got here about a half hour ago, and the bartender called me about fifteen minutes before that." Joe frowned. "I could have handled him myself, except that I was worried that he'd do something stupid while I was driving."

"Dream on, shorty," Rip said. "I c'n take you anytime."

"I'm sure you can," Sam said in an indulgent voice. He turned to Joe, and the tone of his voice changed. "I'm glad you called. Shall we take him home?"

Sam and Joe helped him stand. Things got a bit hazy after that, but eventually Rip realized that he was in the backseat of Joe's car sitting next to Sam, who was holding him up while Joe drove.

"Fuck off," Rip mumbled.

"I do wish you'd expand your conversational openings." Sam's strong arm kept Rip from sliding off the seat. "Which one of you ended it?"

Drunk as he was, Rip knew that he shouldn't admit to anything. "Don' know what you're talkin' about."

"I figure it was Rich," Joe said. "Rip's totally gone over the guy. He wouldn't break it off."

"Not true!" Rip protested. "It's wha' I meanttodo. Wait a minute." He frowned at the back of Joe's head. "You're not suppose'to know."

"You meant to break it off with Rich?"

With a little concentration, Rip was able to turn his glare on Sam. "You're not suppose'to know, either. Why the fuck do you guys know?" A horrible thought crossed Rip's mind. "Are you in on it, too?"

"In on what?"

"Blackmailin' bastard's thing."

"Oh dear." Sam's arm tightened around Rip. "This is quite a bit worse than I'd imagined."

"Who's the blackmailing bastard? I'll kick his ass!" Joe sounded pretty pissed.

"No, no, no, no, can't do that," Rip said, shaking his head even though things spun like a fucking carousel. "Signed a contract."

"Hearst." The car swerved a bit, then straightened. Joe sounded awful, like he was really upset. "Oh my God. Was it Hearst?"

"What about Hearst?" Sam asked.

"He called and said he had a sponsor for Rip. Rip flew out to California yesterday. Oh, fuck. I'm sorry, Rip. I never would have told you if I thought he was up to something!"

Joe's guilt sobered Rip a bit. "I know. He fooled me, too."

"Why did you sign?"

Sam's voice was low and comforting, and Rip slumped against his shoulder. "He had pictures."

Rip heard Sam swear softly and Joe swear a hell of a lot louder. "Is he using them to blackmail you or Sterling Rich?" Sam asked.

"Me. Rich was in on it. Saw it at his house. I believed in 'im," Rip said, hating himself for being so gullible. "Hearst tol' me. I thought he was lying. But I saw it."

Sam and Joe were silent, though Sam's arm tightened around Rip's shoulder again.

"We can't do anything tonight," Sam finally said. "You need to get some sleep. We can figure out what to do in the morning."

"Nothin' to do." Rip yawned, suddenly exhausted. "Signed a contract."

"Do you have a copy of it?"

Rip nodded, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. "But you can't see it. Not your problem."

"I have some connections. I can look into it."

"No. I for- forbid it."

"That's fine," Sam said, his voice gentle, though it sounded like he was smiling. "You won't remember this conversation in the morning, anyway."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;


	3. Blind Course

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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**Chapter Five  
**  
_"As a free-lance journalist I've covered Somali riots quelled by the slaughter of hundreds, and as an embedded journalist in Iraq, I've crouched under a hail of shells. But I have never been more terrified in my life than I was sitting by Rip van Etten's side throughout Hearst's infamous Sun and Moon Blind Rally."  
Samuel Hastings, excerpt from interview on _Late Night_, December XXXX_

Rip looked at the script in his hand. "You want me to endorse condoms?"

"It's all the rage to support safe sex these days." Hearst smiled at Rip with unconcealed amusement. "But perhaps you prefer yours unprotected."

In the past eight weeks, Hearst had demanded that Rip endorse everything from personal lubricants to designer briefs, mattresses to exercise equipment. Rip knew that Hearst's primary goal was to harass him, but he'd also realized that Hearst was sexualizing his public image, something that he wanted to avoid. His fans were for the most part pretty conservative, God-fearing rural folks. Yeah, they liked to see him sow a few wild oats as far as booze and cigarettes, but sex marketing would make many of them question whether or not Rip was a good role model for their kids. And once those questions started being asked, others wouldn't be far behind.

Especially if one of his one-nighters recognized him from the ads and decided to sell his story.

Rip figured that Hearst also wanted to keep him off-balance. His final weeks of preparation for the Sun and Moon had been interrupted time and again by summons to California for trivial tasks that he could have easily accomplished from New York.

Like this fucking condom thing. "This is the last endorsement before the race, right?"

"Of course. I would hate to disrupt your concentration."

Rip was damned if he was going to give Hearst the satisfaction of protesting the bastard's blatant lie. "Just radio?"

"And a print version. I've arranged a limousine to take you to the studio in an hour's time for the shoot."

"They'd better not expect me to wear one of the damned things for the camera," Rip muttered.

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Joe and Sam met Rip at the Vancouver airport.

"How's it going?" Rip could have used about two days of sleep, but he needed to settle in with his team and get everyone prepared for the qualifying heats.

Joe winced. "You want to tell him, or should I?" he asked Sam.

"What the fuck is it this time?"

"We're scheduled to drive the first qualifying run – tomorrow morning at five a.m." Sam looked apologetic. "We tried to get them to reschedule us, but they refused."

"They were letting other drivers change," Joe said bitterly. "But not us."

Rip swore, dropping his head in temporary defeat. "It's that bastard, Hearst." He sighed and straightened. "So. We're first up. Well, we'll just have to set the standard for all the rest."

A smile broke out across Joe's face. "The maintenance crew is set. We've gone over all three cars with a fine-toothed comb. They're perfect."

"Great. Good work, kid." Rip mussed up Joe's hair and grinned when Joe balled his fists and drew a deep breath to shout at him. "Save it. We need that energy for tomorrow. Come on, we've got a lot of work to do."

As they started walking toward the parking lot, Sam dropped in beside Rip, letting Joe run ahead.

"Don't you think you should get some rest first, Rip?"

Rip shook his head. "I need to check the service area."

Sam glanced at him sharply. "Do you expect sabotage?"

"I wouldn't put anything past the bastard," Rip said grimly.

"We can take turns watching—"

"No, don't worry. Loco Doko and Pete are both black belts. I'll talk to them. They'll put the rest of the crew on the alert."

Sam hesitated. "Rip, about Sterling Rich—"

"I don't want to hear it. Not until after I've won this fucking race."

"…I understand."

Rip frowned at Sam. "Look, a lot's riding on this."

Sam nodded and smiled, though the smile looked sort of sad. "I know. What do you need me to do?"

"You've got the route book for the qualifying run, right? Memorize it and set up a timetable for tomorrow, okay?"

"I'll get to work on it immediately," Sam promised.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
At three thirty the next morning, after a sleepless night going over the Jeep he was going to use for the race, Rip figured that they were as ready to go as they were going to get. He fastened his helmet strap under his chin. "It's strange, seeing the Jeep without sponsor logos all over it. Makes me feel like we're going out for a Sunday drive or something."

Sam zipped his firesuit. "The route book gives us an hour to get to the beginning of the qualifying run once we've checked in."

"Sounds good. Let's get going."

They checked in right on time, and Rip took his time driving the forty miles to the beginning of the course. He felt pumped up and alert, despite his lack of sleep. There was no way in hell that he was going to lose, and that included the qualifying heat. He wasn't going to accept anything less than a win every time he took the course.

Sam looked out his window. "This is our exit."

Rip signalled and drove up the ramp. "We on time?"

"Yes, we're fine."

"You picked a hell of a race for your first navving, you know that, don't you?"

"Joe's told me tales." Sam smiled, but sobered quickly. "My greatest worry is that I might keep you from doing your best."

"Not gonna happen. Look, I know we didn't get as much time practicing as we planned, what with me having to be Hearst's lap dog, but you've done great when we have, even on the tough courses. I don't know how to explain it, but somehow, I feel like I've got a real partner sitting beside me. Not that Joe hasn't been, he's great! It's just... I don't know. Just different."

Sam didn't reply. Rip glanced over at him, and saw a thoughtful expression on Sam's face. "What?"

"At the risk of sounding mad, I have to admit there are times when I feel like we've done this before," Sam admitted. "Not racing, exactly, but working together. It feels very familiar to me."

"That's it. That's what it's like for me, too." Rip grinned. "But don't tell anybody, for fuck's sake. They'll think we're crazy."

"I'm afraid that it's too late to change people's opinion of your sanity." Before Rip could say something back, Sam pointed ahead. "It looks like we're here."

Ahead lay a huge parking lot, already filled with cars. A brightly lit area beyond was thronged with people.

Rip shook his head. "I can't believe we have spectators at five in the fucking morning."

"Turn left here. The check-in booth is just over there."

"Got it." They pulled up to the Arrival Time Control booth.

Sam glanced out the window. "Snow. As we expected."

"Yeah. It'll be shit if we're the first ones on it." Damn Hearst, anyway. A route through snow that hadn't been driven would mean a slower time, since Rip couldn't use tracks already established by others to overcome some of the drag of the snow. Not to mention the fact that five in the morning meant that it would be at its coldest and hardest, no thawing to help. "How long is the stage?"

"Seven miles."

"Describe it to me."

"It's a service road for a ski lodge near here, a series of S-curves, with a downhill grade of thirty percent. The book says that the snow on the route is guaranteed to be no more than six inches in depth, but if you go off course, you'll run into walls of snow. It's illuminated every fifty feet by security-grade lighting."

"Sort of like a bobsledding run, huh? With glare."

"That's a good way to describe it." Sam peered at what they could see of the course.

"How long do we get to complete it?"

"Nine and a half minutes."

Rip did some quick calculations. "That gives us an average speed of forty-five to qualify. My guess is that those are pretty tight curves, if that's all the faster they're expecting us to drive."

"We aren't racing the qualifying heat for speed, are we?"

"Well, all we have to do is to make the stage in the allotted time and we've qualified." Rip glanced over at Sam. "But yeah. I'm driving this whole fucking race at speed, even this. I want to set the pace, starting right now."

Sam studied his face intently for a moment, then smiled. "I understand. Do you have a strategy?"

"Yeah." Rip shifted into first and eased the Jeep toward the station. "Giant slalom."

Sam frowned in thought. "The increase in speed off a turn could be risky when we go into the following one."

"Snow walls, right? We'll use the walls for drag at the corners, hit 'em with her back end at an angle in a controlled skid, like skiers use the bumps on a course. Should spin us through the curve and into the next run."

"Have you tried it before?"

"Never." Rip grinned. "I never could get the hang of skis." He parked next to the sign-in booth.

Sam looked a bit alarmed, but merely said, "I'll get our book stamped," and got out of the car.

When he got back into the car a few minutes later, he was frowning. "We're the first ones on it, I'm afraid. The check-in people said it snowed on Wednesday and Thursday, but it was plowed before that and they only got three and a half inches."

"Did they say anything about smoothing it out, or will we have to deal with drifts?"

"We'll have to deal with drifts."

"Damn." Rip put the Jeep in gear and started toward the head of the course. "This is going to be a wild ride. You strapped in?"

Sam checked his harness. "Yes. I'm ready." He looked at the course book. "The timer point is that pole up there."

"Right. We're at the head of the course. I want to get some speed up. Hang on."

Rip hit the timer at fifty-seven mph and immediately sent the Jeep into a controlled skid. They hit the first bank hard, but Rip corrected for it.

"Damn. The bank's softer than I'd hoped." He pushed on the accelerator. "It absorbed a hell of a lot of speed." He sent the Jeep skidding again as the second corner leapt at them.

This time he grunted with approval as they rebounded. He managed to keep them from hitting the opposite wall coming out of the skid. "Sixty-eight must be the magic number."

"Do you think you can reach that in every straightaway?"

"Reach it? Sam, baby, we are _so_ flying past that!" Rip grinned and managed two corners in quick succession. "Shit! Drift!"

The Jeep hit the drift and launched over it, briefly airborne, before landing hard. "Hang on!" but the bank was already on them. Rip managed to sideswipe it, cursing at the lost seconds, but glad at least that they hadn't got stuck. He floored the accelerator again. "How're we doing?"

"Three more corners. You're at four minutes."

"Hot fucking dog!" The Jeep roared.

Every instinct that Rip possessed told him that he was approaching the race the right way. He planned to take Hearst's challenge and beat it all to hell, prove that the Sun and Moon wasn't Hearst's, it was _his_, Rip Fucking van Etten's, from the instant he and Sam started the fucking qualifying run until the last driver finished. Certainty nested deep inside his chest and time slowed until he felt like he could see what was happening before it happened, as he dealt with two more drifts and pounded the straightaways with everything the Jeep had. If that fucking bastard Hearst was trying to break him, he didn't have a chance in hell of doing it, because Rip was _on_.

They flew across the finish and decelerated in a snow-spewing halt at the end of the course.

Rip whooped. "That was fan-fucking-_tastic_!"

Sam was laughing so hard he sounded manic. "Six point zero two minutes! Never mind this morning's breakfast, I thought _tomorrow's_ breakfast was going to come up back there."

"Hah!" Rip couldn't keep an idiotic grin from his face as he eased the Jeep back into gear and headed for the end check-point. "Not even Sterling Fucking Rich will be able to touch that one! Now we get our book stamped, then I want to head back to the hotel and catch about twenty hours of sleep."

"You deserve it! I'll be right back." Sam hopped out of the car and trotted to the booth, a huge smile still on his face. When he came back out, he waved the book at Rip, then climbed back in the Jeep.

"They're all stunned. Nobody can believe it. I don't think that any of the officials thought the race was starting today." Sam's eyes were full of wicked glee. "The expressions on everyone's face in the press booth were worth every near-death experience of the past ten minutes."

Rip play-punched him. "You wuss bastard! 'Near-death experiences' my ass! Man was meant to fly cars."

Sam shook his head, still chuckling. "There's something incredibly wrong about that statement, but right now, I couldn't agree more."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
No other driver came close to Rip's time, and several were disqualified for going over the nine minutes allowed. By the evening of the qualifying runs, only sixteen cars were left in the Sun and Moon. The officials divided them into two

groups of eight and assigned them one of two route books.

"Rich made it in." Joe looked over the materials. "He's in the other group, though."

Rip grunted.

"It means that you'll know what his times are for that day, though," Joe pointed out. "It gives you a goal."

Sam looked thoughtful. "It also means that he'll have Rip's times for the route we're driving on the first day."

"Doesn't matter," Rip said, serene. "He's not going to touch me."

He noticed that Sam and Joe exchanged looks, but said nothing.

Fuck them.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip hit the first day hard, the Jeep perfectly in synch with his will, as if she were an extension of his body. Every run, every second, Rip pushed himself and his team, refusing to allow anything to come between him and his goal.

Joe took their helmets as Rip and Sam climbed out of the Jeep late that night. His eyes were huge.

"I don't believe it. Rip, do you know what you've done?"

"Whupped some ass." Rip stripped the tie from his hair and shook it out. "Is Rich still in it?"

"Yeah, and he's doing really good. He's way in front of his group, too. Rip, your margin is _nine minutes_! You could drive every special stage in the maximum allowed time tomorrow, and you'd still be two minutes faster than the course was set up for."

"We're not backing off. What's Rich's margin?"

"About seven minutes right now. He's still got the timber run to do tonight, then his first day's done, too. I think the other course is harder than yours was. You'll have your hands full when you drive it tomorrow."

"I don't know." Sam pulled the route book out of his inner pocket. "That beach run that we just did was nerve-wracking."

"We hit it just as the tide was almost in, and the damned rocks were slimy. The ocean was chasing our heels." Rip shook his head. "I lost time on that one."

"That's where McPherson lost it completely," Joe said, trotting beside them as Rip and Sam headed for the clubhouse. "He went off the road right before your run."

"I was wondering what the delay was." Rip frowned. "He okay?"

"Broken leg, and his navigator's hip was fractured. Both of them are in hospital. The car was totalled. Your group is down to five drivers. Rich's group has seven."

"McPherson's a good driver."

"Everyone in this race is." Sam shook his head. "This course doesn't seem to allow room for error." They entered the clubhouse.

People glanced over at Rip and there was a rush of press and well-wishers shouting questions and congratulations at Rip and pushing Sam and Joe aside. Rip glared at his friends' grinning faces, shook his head and pushed through the crowd.

"I want a beer."

"On the house," the bartender said. "Your nav, too. That last run was bloody amazing! That stretch of beach service road is called the Devil's Graveyard around here."

Rip laughed. "I don't know about the devil, but there were a couple of times that I felt like there was a guy with a sickle looking over my shoulder when I was on that stretch."

Sam and Joe reached the bar in time to overhear Rip's comment.

"I was wondering if scuba suits were standard equipment in these races," Sam said, accepting a beer with a polite, "Thank you," to the bartender.

"Last year we lost a ranger there." The bartender shook his head. "Some tourists got stranded on the beach when the tide came in and he was the first one to respond. He went off at the same place that McPherson did today."

"What happened?"

"Drowned. There's an underwater drop-off there, with bad rocks at the bottom. We figured he must have been knocked out when he went over."

Joe shivered. "I'm glad you guys are finished with that course."

"Me, too." Rip finished his beer. "Hey, is there any food around here?"

"I'll get the waitress to bring you out some burgers and fries. That do you?"

"Great!" Joe said happily. "Give me three orders!"

"You pig—" Rip started to say, when someone shouted, "Rich is in trouble!"

Rip's heart froze. He jumped off his chair as the bar went quiet. "What happened?"

"He was on the timber run and hit a tree," one of the reporters said. "It's all over the tv."

"He's back on the track!" someone shouted from the other room. "But I don't see his nav!"

"If Rich's nav is out of the race, won't he be disqualified?"

"Yeah."

Rip felt a cold sweat break out all over his body. Rich. The stupid bastard! Driving a course like the Sun and Moon without a nav? "Fuck," he whispered. "He's a stupid bastard. I bet he's gonna try it at speed." He started to head for the room with the television, but Sam grabbed his arm.

"We can't watch."

"But—"

"We'll be disqualified. They've got to keep the route secret from the teams." Sam looked around and leaned closer. "I don't think I can put off telling you any longer. You need to know about Rich."

Rip swore under his breath, but finally nodded. "Right."

Sam let him go and turned to the bartender. "Is there a private place where we could discuss some business matters? Somewhere without a television."

"Sure." The bartender tilted his head. "There's an office down those stairs. Nobody's there. You can use it. Should I have them bring your food down?"

Sam shook his head. "Joe, could you please bring our meals downstairs when they're ready?"

Joe nodded, his eyes wide. "I know Rich is a bastard and all, but if he's not in the race, what's the point in driving it?"

Rip wondered the same thing. The win would mean he'd keep his independence, which would be a relief, if nothing else. But the more important thing was winning the Sun and Moon by out-driving Sterling Rich.

"Come on." Sam gently pushed Rip, making him stumble a bit. Shit, he hadn't realized how tense he was. He followed Sam down the stairs and into a small, cramped office, not much more than a desk and a chair. Rip sat on the edge of the desk while Sam took the chair.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. "Rip, Rich didn't send those photos to Hearst. He's not involved with Hearst's blackmail or the contract."

"You're wrong!" Rip stood and started pacing in the tiny space. "I saw it."

"Hearst set Rich up."

Rip stopped and glared at Sam. "And how the fuck do you know that?"

"I found the courier who delivered the envelope to Rich. He told me that Hearst was insistent that he give it to Rich personally, and made him call back when the delivery was finished. Rip, he delivered it on the same day that you went to California."

Something Hearst had said… That's right. The phone call Hearst had taken when Rip arrived in California. _ Have you carried out my instructions? And witnessed it yourself?_

"The courier didn't know what was in the package, but he did tell me that Hearst had used him for another delivery on the same day that the Sun and Moon registrations were opened. It was also to Rich."

"What if that was the instructions for this whole thing?" Rip asked. But he didn't' believe it. All along, his gut had hurt at the thought of Rich betraying him like that. He now recognized it for what it was.

Guilt.

He hadn't listened to Rich, hadn't even asked the right questions, had just jumped to conclusions.

"I doubt the package was instructions. Rich doesn't seem to be the kind of person to get involved in schemes. My guess is that Rich received a special registration packet for the sole purpose of getting his handwriting on the envelope you saw in Hearst's office. It would have been easy for Hearst to have kept Rich's registration envelope and then slip the photos into it before he showed them to you."

The air in the room suddenly seemed way too close.

There was a knock at the door. "Hey, guys, can I come in?"

Rip opened the door and Joe slid into the office, carrying several baskets of food piled haphazardly one on top of the other. "Thanks. Here you go." He waited until Rip closed the door and handed him a basket.

The smell made Rip's stomach churn. "You can have mine."

Joe paused, looking serious. "That bad, huh?"

"Sam says I was wrong about Rich being involved."

"No shit?" Joe commandeered the corner of the desk where Rip had been sitting. "So like, what's going on, then?"

Sam glanced at the door and lowered his voice. "Rip, do you remember when I told you that Hearst was the protégé of Sterling Rich's father?"

"Yeah. But you said that stopped before Rich was adopted."

"It did. But I had a friend of mine who is a researcher at Harvard take a look at Hearst's stock portfolio. It turns out that over the years, Hearst has been acquiring shares of Kyou. Sterling Rich has always owned fifty-one percent of the shares, with the rest going public. Hearst now owns close to thirty-seven percent of the company, under various businesses."

_Another one of Hearst's lies._ "The bastard told me he owned the majority."

Joe put down his hamburger. "But what does that mean?"

"What if Hearst is planning a hostile takeover of Kyou? He might be blackmailing Rich the same way he's blackmailing Rip." Rip couldn't stop himself from making a sound, and Sam met his eyes. "Whether he's using the relationship like he did with you, or whether he's got some other kind of hold over Rich, he's managed to keep both of you apart."

"So we don't compare notes," Rip said, beginning to understand the full extent of his role in Hearst's plans.

"Exactly. It's much easier to manipulate both of you if neither of you is speaking to the other."

"Fuck!" Rip leaned against the door and banged his head against it. "I'm such a fucking idiot!"

"You couldn't have known." Sam rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Hearst is extremely intelligent, and his manipulations have been subtle. He's hiding one fact by playing up another."

"So Rich needs this win, too."

"Probably, if he wants to oppose Hearst's potential takeover. They may be using this race to play out what would normally happen in a boardroom. Whichever one of them wins will have the momentum and the psychological advantage, and that influences shareholders' votes."

"Oh!" Joe swallowed his mouthful and wiped his sleeve across his chin. "I forgot to tell you! Rich crossed the finish and checked in at Finish Time Control. But they took his nav to the hospital!"

Rip's stomach fell. "Wait! Is his nav out of the race?"

Joe nodded. "They said his seatbelt broke and he has a concussion."

"But that means Rich will be disqualified. You can't drive a race without a nav."

"Oh dear. So it's over, then." Sam looked upset. "I should have insisted on telling you earlier, Rip. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault. I didn't want to hear it." Rip couldn't believe it. Rich was out of the race. Out of the race, and out of Rip's life. "That's it then." He closed his eyes. "What a fucking disaster."

"Um. Guys? I've got an idea."

Rip sighed and looked at Joe. "What? Find a time machine or something?"

"No." Weirdly, Joe didn't look pissed at Rip's sarcasm. He looked embarrassed. "But it might be out there, a little. Well. A lot."

Rip rubbed an aching shoulder. "Let's hear it. Nothing can hurt, at this point."

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Rip's pride had carried him through a tough childhood, a tough time finding sponsors when he first began driving, and a tough road to the top of his profession. It had kept him going in the face of Hearst's harassment and when he'd thought that Rich had betrayed him.

Now he had to let it go.

Rip knocked at the door to Room 353.

"Go away."

"Rich. It's me. Rip."

The door flew open and Rip was confronted by Rich's familiar glare. "Stay the fuck away from me!"

Rich looked like shit. He'd lost weight since Rip had seen him last, and there were deep circles under his eyes. "Wait. Five minutes, then I swear we'll leave if you want us to. But give me five minutes. Okay?"

Rich seemed to notice Sam and Joe for the first time and curled his lip. "You brought the fucking peanut gallery with you?"

"It's important. Really important. Please."

"I've got my Colt."

"I know you probably hate my guts. I wouldn't have come if it wasn't so important."

Rich glared at him for a second longer. "Tch. Get the fuck in here before the reporters smell a story."

They filed in, and Rich shut the door. He made no move to invite them to sit, just stood by the door, his arms crossed.

Rip looked around, but it looked like Rich was staying here by himself. The room was actually a suite with a couple of bedrooms and a kitchen, much bigger than the room he and Sam were sharing. He imagined staying there with Rich, but shook it off immediately. Those days were gone for good. He turned back to Rich.

"Look, I don't know what the fuck Hearst's plans are," Rip said quietly. "But now I know that you didn't screw me over, and that I'm an asshole for thinking you did. And I know that this race is important to both of us. A win doesn't mean anything if it's not you or me over the other."

Rich grunted, still scowling.

Rip nodded as if Rich had responded. "So, I've got a proposition for you."

"Fuck off."

"Hear me out." Rip glanced over at Sam and Joe, and they both smiled encouragingly. "Look, you need a nav or you'll be disqualified, right?"

Rich looked wary, but finally nodded.

"Then how about Joe?"

Rich stared at him as if he thought Rip was demented.

"No, really! He's navved for me for years! He's one of the best."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

Before Rip could say anything, Joe spoke. "It was my idea."

Rich snorted. "Figures. Not even van Etten would think of something that fucking stupid."

Joe just grinned. "Don't alienate your navigator. You need me."

"Why the hell should I trust you?"

"You're screwed anyway, aren't you?" Joe shrugged. "Without you in the race, Rip's gonna win. Besides," his face lit up with unholy glee, and Rip shifted uneasily, "I know all of Rip's moves, don't I?"

"Wait a fucking minute!" Rip protested. "I said you could nav for him, I didn't say you could sell me out!"

"Shut up. You don't have anything to sell, asshole. You drive like a cockroach runs." Rich looked at Joe consideringly. "I still don't see what you're going to get out of this."

Joe's gaze darted toward Rip. He looked guilty. "I'll be in the race. I don't want to sit on the sidelines anymore."

"Joe—" Rip said weakly.

"Hey, no worries," Joe said, though Rip could tell his cheer was forced. "Sam's a great nav. You two work great together, better than you and me did, and we were really good. I just wanna be out there, too." He looked away.

"Aw, shit, kid," Rip said, upset. He met Rich's eyes. "He's the best, you know."

"Yeah. I know." Rich frowned in thought. "This isn't just for publicity, is it?"

Joe shook his head. "I like working for Rip, but not enough to do something like that."

Rip heard Sam stifle a chuckle.

"What about the course?"

"What about it?"

"Were you on the asshole's crew for today's runs?"

Joe looked perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

"I believe he's concerned about whether you would be disqualified because you've seen the routes already," Sam said quietly.

"Oh. Well, I was on the maintenance crew," Joe said. "But I didn't see the special stage courses. I've only been where the crews were allowed."

Rich continued to frown, but Rip could see he was giving the idea serious consideration. He fixed his gaze on Rip. "Why did you say 'yes' to this? What's in it for you?"

_I'm not going to forgive you,_ came through loud and clear. Rip shrugged, trying to hide how deeply Rich's anger cut him. "Like I said. I'm racing you. I'm not racing anybody else. If you're not in the race, it's not worth it."

Rich studied him for a few more seconds before turning back to Joe. "Come on, kid. I'll show you what it feels like to come in first."

Joe looked up, his eyes bright with excitement. "Really?"

Rich rolled his eyes, and started heading for the kitchen. "If you fuck up, I'll kill you," he said, not turning around. "The rest of you, get the fuck out."

Joe scrambled after him. As Rip opened the door, he could hear Joe's excited chatter and Rich's grunts in response. Guilt ate at him. How long had it been since he'd seen Joe that happy and enthusiastic? He glanced over his shoulder to see Rich clout Joe on the back of the head; Joe protested indignantly, but his normal effervescence took over as he opened the refrigerator, probably to search for something to eat.

"It looks like they'll get along well," Sam said.

"Yeah." Rip left the suite and waited as Sam closed the door behind them. They headed down the hall.

Sam glanced at him. "You might want to release a statement. I know if I were covering this race as a journalist, I'd jump all over this story if I heard it through the rumor mill."

"Can you do it?" Rip rubbed the back of his neck when Sam nodded. "Just don't be too sappy or make me sound generous or anything. I need a drink."

"Let's go back to the rally site, then you can order one for me, too," Sam replied with a smile. "Don't worry. I'll make you sound properly disgruntled."

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	4. fic:  Blind Course (Saiyuki), Sanzo/Gojyo, AU, NC-17, Post 4 of 4

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Chapter Six

_"Pitfalls can rise through circumstance, or be manufactured by others, or even be inherent in one's self. No matter their nature, they must be overcome."  
Samuel Hastings, Opening remarks at the _Holiday Gold_ fundraising dinner for disabled athletes, December XXXX_

Sam studied the page for the last special stage as Rip slowly drove them to the start of the run. "If we want to beat Rich's time, we need to drive this in fourteen point seven two minutes. The stage is seventeen miles long. That gives us an average speed of around seventy miles per hour."

"Shit. That's damn fast for an unknown timber run in the dark. No wonder Rich crashed. And he still had the fastest time on the damn thing." Rip pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache he could feel building. One more. That's all that was left, then he could sleep for six months if he wanted. "What's the max time?"

"They allow twenty-five minutes."

"Damn." Rip dropped his hand. "We're gonna need to fly."

"Rip." The shock in Sam's voice caught Rip's attention. "I can't believe this. The deceleration distance from the finish line to the course barrier is only a hundred feet."

"A hundred?" Rip swore, doing quick calculations in his head. If they were going seventy mph when they hit the finish line, they'd need at least a hundred and fifty feet to stop, closer to one seventy-five. "Where are the spectators?"

"Behind the Finish Time Control stand, it appears."

"Nowhere near the barrier?"

Sam shook his head. "Do you mean to take the end at speed?"

"That's what rallying is. We don't play safe." _I can't lose._

A smile spread across Sam's face. "Of course not." He glanced at the clock. "We've got three minutes to get into position and start the last stage."

Rip could have kissed him. The guy had guts.

Sam's confidence helped something inside of Rip to relax, and determination settled in his bones. He was going to win. There was no way Rich could match him on this course. "It's going to be a hell of a stop."

"I trust you. Let her fly."

Rip looked over. "You're all right for a journalist."

Sam laughed. "And you're all right for a suicidal maniac." He glanced out the window. "And here we are at Arrival Time Control. I'll get the book marked while you do one last check."

Rip eased the Jeep into position and let her idle while he did a final safety check. By the time Sam emerged from the booth, he was ready, his focus narrowed to the course ahead of him, poised and ready to go, with the surreal tension of the competition churning in his stomach.

In less than an hour, the race would be over. In less than an hour, he'd be a free man again. He was running eighty-seven seconds faster than Rich. They both had one run left. Unless he fucked up or Rich pulled off a miracle, Rip had already won.

He hoped Sam didn't notice that he had an adrenaline hard-on, but didn't let it bother him too much, because Sam noticed everything, and anyway, it really didn't matter. He was going to beat Rich's ass and then he'd take on Hearst.

But one thing at a time. First he had to get through this last special stage in less than fourteen minutes.

Sam got into the car and strapped himself into his harness. "We're clear to go."

Rip revved the Jeep and heard a faint cheer from the spectators. He gripped the gearshift. "Ready?"

Sam tested his belt and helmet. "I'm ready."

"Then give it to me."

Sam picked up the route book. "Dirt track throughout, eight feet across so fairly wide but no shoulder, probably pretty torn up from the other competitors. We had rain late last night, so there's likely to be mud. The first three point six two miles are straight with slight curves, but the book says it's bumpy."

"That means we'll probably get jounced pretty bad. Don't bite your tongue while you're telling me where to go."

"People do that?"

"Joe did. Once. Though he was eating a sandwich at the time, too."

"I'll eat later, then."

"Good plan. Give me the rest on the road. Here we go." Rip revved the engine again, then clutched and hit the accelerator. The Jeep's tires screamed and they raced forward, headlights illuminating a vast wall of trees as they flew past the spectators and officials and crossed the start line at sixty-two.

Once they hit the forest, their road narrowed to a black tunnel and the track within the Jeep's headlights. Rip relied solely on Sam's voice and his own reflexes as they roared through the forest, so jarred by the rough track that Rip briefly wondered how Sam could continue to give him directions. But Sam did, and Rip pushed the Jeep and himself to the limit to follow them.

A stream leapt out of the darkness and flew past in a sheet of water and slick mud as they forded it and climbed out the opposite side, then they were in curves. Rip pulled the Jeep tight into each one, allowing her to drift the full breadth of the road as he accelerated through it and then pulling her back to the inside as soon as they cleared so they'd be in position for the next one. He kept the throttle wide open, wincing at the occasional protesting shriek of the tires, but none of them burst, so it was all good.

"We're nearly there. Sharp Z-curve, twenty degree incline, then straight downhill from the top to the finish line."

Rip tapped the brakes, positioned the Jeep and shifted, plowing into the Z-curve. He gripped the wheel with both hands and refused to let the Jeep straighten, though every law of mechanics fought against him. He felt her passenger side wheels leave the ground and for a split second he thought that they were going to roll, but she straightened out and started climbing, her engine straining as Rip pushed her hard.

They literally flew off the top of the hill, bucking hard as they landed, but the tires found a grip and they raced toward the finish line.

"Keep it at seventy-four, and we'll do it," Sam shouted.

Rip grinned and pushed harder on the pedal. The arrow rose and held at seventy-eight a hundred yards from the finish.

"I'm gonna throw her into a skid the second we're across the line. We're gonna hit the barrier on my side."

Sam didn't even have time to acknowledge him before they were over the line. Rip yanked the wheel over and hit the brakes.

The Jeep went sideways down the deceleration lane, throwing up mud and dirt in a huge wave in front of her. They hit the barrier hard and crashed through. The Jeep spun a couple of times, then jerked to a halt in a tangle of wood lathing and wire fencing.

Rip let out the breath he'd been holding. "You okay?"

He heard Sam moving in his seat. "A little sore, but yes, I'm fine. By the way, congratulations."

Rip looked at the timer and closed his eyes. "Thank fuck."

"Thirteen point three seven minutes." Sam's voice was soft. "Rich won't be able to make that up, no matter how brilliantly he drives the beach run. Rip. You've won the Sun and Moon."

Rip tried the words out in his head. _I won. I out-drove Sterling Rich._

He felt no elation, no joy, just sick relief.

Blind rage swept through him. Goddamn that fucker, Hearst! This should be a fucking _win_, not a repeal of slavery. The race hadn't been fun, like it should have been. It had been a nightmare. A fucking four-month-long nightmare. "It's not a win."

Sam was silent, but a moment later, Rip felt his hand cover his own where he still gripped the wheel.

Rip fought down the lump in his throat. "We'd better check in." His voice sounded almost normal.

"Yes." Sam's hand dropped away.

Rip took a deep breath and shifted into first, easing the Jeep over the wreckage of the barrier fence. He slowly drove to Finish Time Control, and endured the congratulations, the whooping, the excited voices and jubilant fans, smiling and nodding as if he was fucking proud of himself or something.

Too bad he was such a fucking loser.

He'd have made a great winner.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip headed straight for the big screen television in the clubhouse to watch Rich's beach run. He arrived to an uproar.

He grabbed a reporter's arm. "What the fuck's the matter?"

"The beach run is closed for the night because the tide's coming in. But Rich is driving it anyway." The reporter shook her head. "He's nearly as crazy as you."

"Thanks." Rip let her go and stared at the screen, stunned. What the fuck was Rich doing? They would have given him the option of driving it tomorrow night, wouldn't they?

_What if he doesn't know?_

Rip's instincts kicked in and he shivered. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong. He headed toward the door and met Sam as he was coming in.

"Rich is—"

"I heard."

"I've got to warn him!"

Sam took Rip's arm and pulled him outside, leading him around the building until they were in the shadows. "Rip. If you go on the course, you'll be disqualified."

"Something's wrong. I can feel it."

Sam was silent. Rip could barely see him in the diffused glow from the lights in front of the clubhouse. "I think you're right to be worried," Sam finally said, sounding like he was still running conclusions through his head. "But what can you do?"

"Look, I've got my cell on me. I'm going to get the Jeep and head out there, but I'll wait by the service area. Call me if anything happens." When Sam didn't reply, Rip added quietly, "I don't give a fuck if Hearst owns me for life. If Rich and Joe are in trouble, I'll throw the race."

"All right." Sam squeezed Rip's arm. "Be careful. This may have something to do with Hearst's plans for you."

"You be careful, too."

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
The phone call that Rip had been dreading came through when he was still five minutes from the start of the beach special stage course.

The cell connection was bad, and Sam's voice faded in and out. "…He's in the water…McPherson… sending help…"

"Right. I'm going in."

"…Careful…"

Rip didn't bother replying. He tossed the cell on the nav seat and floored the accelerator.

He hit the top of the course and flew past the spectators and the service area and Arrival Time Control, ignoring shouts and waves as people tried to stop him. He hit the course at speed, running the twists and turns through his head and flying over them faster than he'd driven the night before.

But still not fast enough.

As he approached the part of the course where McPherson had gone over, he slowed, shifting down through the gears until the Jeep grumbled into first. He rounded the last corner and jammed on the brakes.

The night was calm, but the sea was high, cold and black beneath a sliver of moon. Rich had managed to keep the Kyou from going completely in the water, otherwise they'd have been done for, Rip realized. Her rear driver's side clung to the rocks, but her front end was submerged almost to the passenger compartment. Rip angled the Jeep so her headlights lit up the area around the wrecked car and left her running. Rich and Joe would need heat, since they were probably soaked. He'd have to work fast; this whole stretch of road would be submerged when the tide reached its peak.

He slipped and scrambled down the slimy rocks until he reached the Kyou. The driver's side window was missing, and Rip could see Rich's head.

"Rich! Joe!"

Rich's hand appeared, then the white blur of his face as he pulled himself toward the window. "Help me. The kid's knocked out, and the water's rising."

"Got it." Rip carefully eased the driver's side door open. "Can you grab him and I'll pull you both out?"

Rich shook his head. "I'll lift him. You grab him and pull him out."

"Right."

Working carefully, they eased Joe out of the car. Rip reached for Rich's hand. "Come on."

"I can't."

"What?"

"The seatbelt's jammed." Rich looked grim. "Take the kid and get out of here before the water gets any higher."

Rip's heart started pounding hard. "No."

"No use all three of us dying," Rich said brutally. "Get him safe, would you?"

"Look, we've still got time. I'll take him up to the Jeep, then I'll come back and we'll get you out."

"Asshole! The road back is already probably covered by the tide!"

"The Jeep can take it. I'm not leaving without you." Without waiting for a reply, Rip picked up Joe and crept back over the rocks. By the time he got to the Jeep, he was shaking with cold and adrenaline. He put Joe inside, rummaged quickly through his toolbox and slammed the door shut, then headed back down the rocks.

Rich greeted his return with curses. Rip could see where his fingers were bloody and torn from trying to rip free of the safety harness.

The water was up to his chest. Rich glared at Rip. "You stupid bastard!"

"I grabbed a utility knife. I'm going to start cutting." The water was impossibly cold, and Rip could feel his fingers going numb as he began to saw at the webbing of the belt. The first strap gave way, and he cautiously reached down toward the one coming up between Rich's legs.

"Look out!" Rich snapped. The Kyou slid a few inches.

Rip froze, breathing hard, battling his urge to scramble back and run. The car seemed to settle again, so he reached down and felt for the edge of the belt.

The water was at Rich's shoulders. He glared at Rip. "You're a fool, you know that?"

Rip laughed breathlessly. "Nobody'd argue with you."

The leg belt was stubborn. It seemed doubled over on itself, and even with Rip's long arms, the water was rising fast enough that it was a stretch for him to reach that far without submerging his head.

"You won, you know."

Rip realized that Rich had forgotten about the disqualification rule for entering a course when another driver was on it. "Yeah. Whupped your ass good, didn't I?"

Rich snorted. "This wasn't a fucking race, it was a fiasco."

Rip laughed softly. "You're telling me." The second belt gave. "Once I get this shoulder strap, you should be able to slip out of the rest of it."

He was greeted by coughing. He looked over to see Rich tilting his head back, trying to keep his face out of the waves. The water was up to his chin.

"Jesus." The waves were beginning to rock the Kyou, and Rip was terrified that she'd slip from her precarious roost and plunge into the deep water before he could cut through the last strap. He started working feverishly at the shoulder belt "Where the fuck's the helicopter?"

"Not coming."

"What? Are you hallucinating or something?"

Rich shook his head, spitting water out of his mouth as a wave swept up. "This wasn't an accident. The Kyou's steering went, but not like it would if the road damaged it. It was there, then it was gone."

Rip swore. "I believe you, but do you have any proof?"

"Yesterday's accident. The route book showed a straightaway instead of a curve. And the seatbelt was cut."

Rip looked at Rich, startled. "What the fuck?"

Rich paused for another wave to pass. "Today, too. The tide chart attached to Joe's route book shows low tide now. Then my seatbelt jams. My crew is supposed to take everything they've got to the police if anything happens to me. Otherwise, we were going to wait until after the race."

Rip cursed. His instincts had been right. "There are cameras all along the special stage routes. They know we're in trouble."

"Don't worry. Hearst is good. It'll be some sort of technical problem with the chopper."

Rich's head submerged under a wave. He shook his hair out of his eyes when he came back up. "Get out of here. Now."

Rip shook his head and swore. The tide was coming in too fast. He yanked at the belt, but it wouldn't give, so he kept sawing at it. Rich was going to drown in just a few minutes if he couldn't get free.

The Kyou made a noise like a sigh and slid off the rocks.

Rip was pulled under with the car, still clinging to the harness as he tried to force the knife through the stubborn threads. His hair swept back as the car sunk deeper; Rich's hair was in his face. Desperately, Rip yanked at the belt.

It gave.

He grabbed Rich's arm and pulled him from the car. Swimming hard, Rip managed to free Rich from the sinking Kyou's undertow. He headed toward the surface.

They broke into air a few yards out from the shore and swam for the rocks, clambering out of the freezing water together.

The road was already covered. They waded to the Jeep, where Rich grimly lifted Joe up until he could slide underneath him and then held him in place on his lap. Rip got into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

"Hang on. I'm backing her out."

The next ten minutes were a nightmare. The Jeep's backup lights only showed water, so Rip had to inch backward, relying on his memory and his instincts to steer him along the tide-washed road. More than once the Jeep shifted and he held his breath, waiting for her to get swept off, but her tires would catch and their slow progress would continue.

A crowd waited for them where the road finally climbed out of the sea. Rip backed up the incline to the head of the course, a crowd escorting him the entire way. Once on level land, he stopped and allowed them to swarm over the Jeep. Medics took Joe off in an ambulance, while others half-carried Rip and Rich to the emergency tent.

Blankets were draped over them and steaming cups of coffee were pushed into their hands. Rip didn't bother listening to anything anyone said, just nodded and tried not to look at Rich's pale, bruised face as Rich told the reporters what had happened in short, clipped sentences liberally interspersed with curses.

In fact, the only thing that Rip couldn't ignore was Rich's intent, unreadable gaze, which fell on him often enough that Rip felt exposed and uneasy. But Rich said nothing, and eventually, they were each taken in separate cars back to their hotel, where Rip crawled into his bed, pulled the covers over his head, and finally succumbed to his exhaustion.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip kept the volume of the television turned down, not wanting to disturb Sam. He hadn't been in the room when Rip had arrived in the early hours, but he'd been there when Rip woke up, neatly curled in his bed and sleeping.

He channel-surfed a bit and stopped on a news channel when he noticed a reference to the race. The cameras panned in to show one of the other teams receive the win for the Sun and Moon. The driver and nav looked a bit dazed as they accepted the trophy and winner's pot from Hearst, both of them nearly hidden behind a forest of microphones.

Hearst looked poised and gracious. He shook his head and waved off questions about Rip's and Rich's disqualifications from the race with a deprecating, "You can't win them all, I guess," that made Rip's flesh crawl.

He stopped watching and turned the tv off when they started showing clips of the Jeep backing up out of the water and him and Rich being escorted to the emergency tent. Rich's pale, tense face flickered and disappeared. Rip put down the remote.

After that, he took a shower, put on some clothes and had breakfast brought up to the room, but when it arrived he couldn't stomach it and left the eggs and bacon to congeal, untouched, while he forced down coffee and tried to shake the numbness that kept him from leaving the room and confronting the people he knew were waiting for him.

Racing was over for him, of course. There was no way that Rip would continue in his profession, not with Hearst pulling all of the strings, and if Hearst didn't like it, too bad. Rip would do the condom ads and the fitness machine endorsements until his fifteen minutes of fame faded into obscurity, then he'd probably find a job running a carwash or something, one that didn't require the schooling he'd never received, much less the pride he'd lost when he'd signed the fucking contract.

When the message light started blinking on the phone, he knew it was Hearst even before he picked up the receiver. He listened, then hung up the phone, picked up his jacket and, with a last glance at Sam's sleeping form, softly closed the door behind him.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
Rip met Hearst in the hotel manager's office. There was no sign of the manager..

William escorted Rip to a chair in front of the burl wood desk. Hearst sat behind it, his face wreathed in false regret and sympathy, looking as at home in the rich trappings of the manager's office as he had in the stark modern elegance of his own.

"It's unfortunate that you finished so brilliantly, only to lose on a technicality." Hearst sipped a pale green tea that probably cost the equivalent of the Jeep's heavy-duty steel-belted radials, his fingers cupped around the delicate teacup like talons. "But I'll manage things from now on. You won't need to worry about anything."

Rip stared at the cup of identical tea cooling in his own hands. "Fine."

Hearst glanced at him sharply, a thoughtful expression on his face. He put down his tea and motioned, and William stepped forward. "Have the jet prepared, will you? I think we'll fly to the Bahamas this afternoon." He turned back to Rip and smiled. "Have you ever been to Nassau, Rip? It's quite delightful this time of year."

Rip shrugged.

Shaking his head, Hearst stood and circled the desk to stand in front of Rip. He ran his fingers over Rip's hair, as if he were petting a dog. "My dear, beautiful boy. Don't act so tragic. It doesn't become you."

Rip forced himself not to jerk away from Hearst's touch. "Just tell me about whatever you've got planned for me."

Hearst sighed. "So melodramatic. All I have planned for you is rest and relaxation. Bright sun, warm sand, a tropical breeze. Cool nights spent under the stars. There now, that doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

"I told you before, I don't put out."

"I rather think you might, given the proper motivation." Hearst cupped Rip's cheek. "Come in, Sterling."

Rip whirled in his seat as Rich entered the room. "Rich—!"

"Shut up."

William closed the door.

"Now, now." Hearst's hand slipped to Rip's shoulder, caressing him even as he held him in his chair. "I'm so glad you could join Rip and me, Sterling," he continued, smiling. "We have plans later this afternoon, and I didn't want to miss you."

Rich snorted. "He's a stupid asshole. You'll be bored in a week."

"Bored with Rip? I doubt it. He's so responsive, isn't he?" Hearst's hand wandered into Rip's hair. "Such pretty hair. And from what I've observed, his body is quite attractive as well."

Rip clenched his teacup. "Get the fuck out of here, Rich."

"I said shut up." Rich glared at Hearst. "I turned everything over to the police."

"The police?" Hearst's eyes widened. "My dear boy, what are you talking about?"

"They might not link it back to you, but then again, they might." Rich looked at William. "Close to you, anyway."

"I'm afraid that I still don't know what you're talking about, Sterling."

"The attempts on my life. That goddamned clause in my idiot father's will. Kyou Motors. Any of that ring a bell?"

"Hmm. Of course I'm familiar with the terms of your father's will. Didn't it say something like, 'I bequeath my shares in Kyou Motors to my son, Sterling Pound Rich, in the hopes that at some point he might get a life, or at least learn to laugh. If the damned stubborn fool breaks his neck before then and has no issue or heir, the shares shall go to Patrick Benedict Hearst.' Or similar words, I forget the specifics."

"Cut the shit. That's what the idiot wrote. You lost. I'm still alive."

"And I'm delighted by the fact!" Hearst leaned over Rip possessively. "I have Rip, after all."

"That's nothing to do with me."

"Hmm. Somehow, Sterling, I get the feeling you're bluffing."

Rich looked at Rip with disgust. "As if I would. Van Etten's an idiot and too stupid to live. But fuck it." He pulled out his Colt. "As long as I'm here, tear up his fucking contract or I'll shoot your balls off, asshole."

"Jesus fuck, Rich!" Rip stared in horror.

The door opened and Sam poked his head in the office. "Ah haha! Oh dear! I seem to have interrupted something."

Rip stared. "Sam?"

Sam stepped into the room. "Hello, everyone. I'm sorry to interrupt. I'm Samuel Hastings. I'm afraid that Rip is late for an interview. The hotel manager told me he was here. I've come to collect him."

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I left a note for you to wake me up." Sam sighed. "Really, Rip. Imagine how I felt when I realized you'd already gone and left me to oversleep." He glanced over at Rich. "By the way, I don't believe there's any need for weapons. Canada is a peaceful country. I'm sure they'd prefer it we left it that way."

"This fuck tried to kill me."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that. I believe I have a solution to that problem, however." He smiled serenely. "Mr. Hearst, I've prepared some reading materials for you. I believe your lawyers may have already perused them, if you'd like to give them a call."

Hearst's eyebrows rose. "Indeed. William?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get Bernie on the phone, would you, please?"

"Of course, sir."

Sam continued to smile. "My attorneys have been advised to release those reading materials to interested parties if anything should happen to me, Rip, Mr. Rich, Joe, or any of our associates. It may be in your best interests to make sure that we live long and happy lives, Mr. Hearst."

"Hmm? Of course, I have nothing but the deepest hope that all of you live long and happy lives. If you'll excuse me." Hearst took the cell William handed to him. "Ah, Bernie. Really? You don't say. Well, well. No, no, your advice is sound. Say hello to Linda for me, will you? I'll be around next week if you're up for a round or two of golf. Ha ha ha! I'll have to ask for a handicap, then. Talk to you soon." He flipped the cell shut and beamed. "My attorney advises me that your reading materials are quite riveting."

Sam beamed back. "I believe they could be Pulitzer material, myself."

"Ah, ah, ah." Hearst wagged a finger at him. "Pride goes before a fall, they say. I might have a story or two of my own that could win an award."

Rich looked at Hearst with contempt. "Stuff your story. I don't give a fuck if you tell the world I fuck midgets."

_To hell with it. I don't need to race cars if it means living a lie._ Rip took a deep breath. "You can out me, too. I'm not giving in."

Sam rubbed the back of his head. "Ah ha ha! I believe the phrase went something like, 'Tear up van Etten's fucking contract.' Of course, my version doesn't include threats against your virility." He beamed some more at Hearst.

Rip just stared. It was like watching some face-off on a nature program: the sleek catamount standing firm over his territory; a hawk, maybe, or a vulture, hovering, waiting to feed.

Hearst backed down.

"Well, well. My hat's off to you, Sterling. You certainly seem to have surrounded yourself with loyal pets." Hearst sighed. "It appears I'll have to take my battle to the boardroom after all."

"Don't bother," Sam said cheerfully. "I seem to have acquired a fair number of shares of Kyou Motors stock when I dabbled in investments recently. Current management has made them quite lucrative. I believe I'll hold on to them for a while."

"Loyal pets indeed." Hearst patted Rip's shoulder. "I'm so very sorry, my dear boy. I'm afraid I can't take you to Nassau as I promised." He leaned against the desk and waved. "Bye, bye."

Rip couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Sam held the door for him and Rich, then followed them and closed it behind him. "By the way, I wasn't joking. I really am quite upset with you, Rip."

Rip felt like he needed another shower to get rid of the feeling of Hearst's touches. "Sorry. I didn't see any note."

"Actually, I didn't leave one. You used up the shampoo."

Rip snorted. "Asshole. How the hell did you know where to find me?"

"You didn't bother to erase your phone message."

"Oh."

They reached the lobby, and Rip could smell toast and bacon from the dining room. His stomach growled. He looked around and noticed a few people pointing and staring. "I could use something to eat, somewhere private."

"I've got quite a few phone calls to make, plus a deadline to meet. I was hoping to have our room to myself for a little while." The tone of Sam's voice implied that Rip had better not disagree.

"Uh. Okay." Rip scratched the back of his head.

Rich sighed. "Come to my room. You can have them send something up to you."

Sam beamed at them like he'd beamed at Hearst, which made Rip feel like an idiot. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Rich. I'll see you later, Rip." He headed for the elevators.

Rich headed for the opposite side of the lobby. "I need a smoke."

"They don't allow smoking in the hotel."

Rich looked at Rip as if he thought Rip was stupid, which he probably did. "I'm going outside."

Rip sighed. "Sorry. I'm still pretty freaked."

"Why the fuck did you sign the damned contract in the first place?"

"A whole bunch of reasons, all of them shitty." They went outside and headed toward the benches overlooking the ocean. "The guy scares the piss out of me."

"Why do you think I carry a Colt?"

Rip snorted. He sat on the nearest bench and took out his cigarettes.

Rich did the same. They smoked in silence.

The ocean was gorgeous this morning, choppy in the cold breeze. There were only a few other people around them, all wearing scarves and heavy jackets. Rip finished his cigarette, then blew on his fingers and rubbed his hands together to warm them.

"Why would your dad leave the shares to Hearst if you died?"

Rich ground out his cigarette. "Hearst was brilliant at managing Kyou, but his ethics sucked. Dad thought leaving the shares to me would keep me involved in the business, since I didn't want Kyou to be dragged into anything shady. He told me Hearst would probably come after me."

"Jesus! Rich!"

Rich shrugged. "He figured I could handle it. He thought Hearst was funny."

"Funny like death, maybe."

"I told you dad had a shit sense of humor." Rich took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped another one out. "By the way, asshole. Joe's fine. He says you never called." He lit it and took a deep drag. "You're a pretty shitty friend, aren't you?"

Guilt swept over Rip. "Oh, fuck. I forgot."

"Yeah, well, that's what he thought. You'd better make it up to him, or I'm keeping him as my nav."

"He's probably better off with you, anyway." Rip tried to keep his voice casual. "I'm thinking that maybe it's time to retire."

Rich glanced at him sharply. "And do what?"

Rip shrugged. "Hell if I know."

"Then why the fuck retire?"

"Maybe because I'm gay and I'm driving pro rally?"

"Asshole. Fuck 'em. If you want to drive, drive. If you want to quit, quit."

Was it really as simple as that? Probably not, but it sounded good. "You think an out gay guy can drive this circuit?"

"Won't know until one does, will we?"

"Yeah. I guess not." Was he up for it? Did he really want to let the world know that he was gay? Rip looked at Rich from the corner of his eye. It felt good to be with him again. Could it go back to the way it was? Would Rich stick around if Rip outed himself?

_Won't know until one does, will we?_

Rich blew out a plume of smoke. He looked so fucking sexy that Rip didn't stop to think, he just pulled the cigarette from Rich's mouth, dropped it to the ground and pulled him close.

The kiss was definitely worth the black eye.

The sex once they got back to Rich's suite was even better.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  


  
_~Epilogue~_

"What defines a champion? Winning the race? Or is he defined by the choices made which led to his loss?"  
Samuel Hastings, transcripted excerpt from paparazzi video of the post-Sun and Moon Blind Rally_ reception (Hastings, Rich, and van Etten all clearly drunk), December XXXX_

"Cut the f***king bulls***, a**hole!"  
Sterling Rich to Samuel Hastings, ibid.

The windows of the study were wide open. The scent of damp earth and pine trees filled the room, though Rich looked oblivious to it. Working on new specs again. Fuck it. It was a gorgeous day, and Rich needed to get off his ass, anyway.

"Hey. Jerk. Happy anniversary." Rip didn't bother to hide his grin as he presented his bouquet to Rich.

Rich looked royally pissed. "What the fuck?"

"We met one year ago today and fucked the same night. I figured a rose or two wasn't gonna hurt you. You still owe me a bigger back seat in your damned Kyou, by the way. It'd be a nice anniversary present. Oh, and here." He threw a package on the drafting table. "Sam says we should open it."

"Get those fucking flowers away from me. I'm allergic."

"You're blushing."

Rich reached into a drawer, pulled out his Colt and aimed it at Rip. "It's loaded."

Rip sighed and tossed the roses on a recliner. "You're such a bastard. Fine. At least open Sam's package."

Rich glared at the roses a moment longer before he laid the Colt on the drafting table and ripped open the package. He pulled out a thick stack of papers. "What's this?"

Rip leaned over his shoulder. "Looks like the galleys for his book."

"_Sun and Moon: A Race Not Meant to be Won._ Where does he come up with that crap?"

"When he called from Istanbul last week, he said we were supposed to read the dedication." Rip watched as Rich paged through the manuscript. "There!"

Rich shoved the pages at him. "You read it if you're so fucking interested." He turned back to his specs, absently moving the Colt atop a pile of papers to hold them down as a cool breeze came through the window.

Rip took the pages and leaned against Rich's chair.

A year. It didn't seem possible.

"He's dedicated the book to you and me and pro rallying. Oh, and Sam thinks you're a dragon and I'm a phoenix."

Rich groaned. "He's such a fucking bullshitter."

Rip shifted, his jeans uncomfortably tight. "I don't know. It's kind of a turn on."

"What?" Rich pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head and stared at Rip.

"I'm not nuts! Sam told me—" Rip shut up. Rich wouldn't understand, and he'd probably get shot.

Rich stood, his hand lying on top of the Colt. "What did that asshole tell you?"

Rip put the manuscript on an end table and started backing toward the door. "You know."

"I don't know." Rich's hand closed around the grip.

"About dragons. And phoenixes. Shit like that."

"Cut the crap and get to the point."

"Uh, dragons are rich guys and phoenixes are new wave chi—uh, guys, and sometimes they get it on."

"Good fucking God. And you believed that shit?"

Rip shrugged. "It's kind of sexy, thinking about it."

Rich picked up the gun and started toward Rip. Rip backed away a little faster.

"Look, Rich, it's not like I'm thinking 'dragon dick' when you're doing me or anything!" Rip missed the doorway and bumped into the wall. Rich crowded him, jamming the barrel of the gun under his chin "Oh, shit."

"It sounds like you need some sense fucked into you." Rich's voice was soft and deadly, and Rip wondered if his jeans could stand up to the pressure his cock was putting on them.

"Maybe. Yeah. Okay."

Rich leaned closer. "Drop your jeans and face the wall."

Rip made a needy sound that he really should have been embarrassed about, but he dropped his jeans and turned around and that made it all right. Rich's hands grabbed his hipbones. "Put your hands on the wall."

Rip did, licking dry lips. The hands pulled his hips back, until his arms took most of his weight. He felt fingers ghost over his ass, the weight of the gun cool against his skin; then it disappeared and there was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor just before his ass cheeks were spread and something warm and wet moved over his asshole. He made another needy sound as Rich started to fuck him with his tongue.

He was nearly incoherent with pleasure by the time Rich eased his cock inside. Rip stumbled forward far enough to brace his head against the wall and bit his lower lip to keep from crying out, it felt so fucking good.

Once Rich was fully seated, he began a slow, steady thrusting, with an evil little grind at the end that lifted Rip up to his toes. Rich's hands dug deep into his hipbones as he pulled Rip's ass back to meet his strokes, the momentum building until Rip wasn't sure if his legs were going to hold out much longer. Rich seemed to sense it, because he paused and pulled out, then shoved Rip over the arm of a recliner and slid straight back in, barely breaking rhythm. With the chair for support, Rip spread his legs and felt Rich slide deeper, hitting his prostate.

"Oh, fuck." Rip's balls began to prickle with the first stirrings of his oncoming orgasm.

"Don't touch yourself."

Rip obeyed, riding the waves of stimulation higher. "I'm gonna come!"

Rich pounded harder. "You come when I tell you to come."

"Then start tellin' me pretty damned soon, bastard!"

The thrusts became a constant pounding against his prostate.

"Now!" Rich ordered. Rip moaned and came, semen pulsing from him with every push of Rich's cock against his prostate. Rich's fingers tightened on Rip's hips and he plunged in one last time, draped over Rip's back and pressed against him as if he were trying to crawl into Rip's skin. Then his legs gave out, and he collapsed on top of Rip.

"So good," Rip whispered. "Fuck. It just keeps getting better."

"Shut up."

But Rip felt the gentle press of lips against the nape of his neck, and smiled.

&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;*&lt;&gt;

  
A stray breeze lifted the pages of the manuscript and one drifted to the floor.

_Where is the line between objectivity and being a fan? I cross it one way or the other daily, and can only hope to do as little damage as possible in the process. As writer, fan and friend, however, I dedicate this book to the sport of pro rallying, and to Sterling Rich and Rip van Etten, the dragon and the phoenix of stage rally racing in America, and the empire of legend that they've built for us all._

Samuel Hastings, June XXXX


End file.
